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On the eve of my ninetieth birthday,
as midnight struck—
December holding its breath—
I turned inward and asked
the simplest, hardest question:
How do I summarize a life?

No answer came.
Only silence.
So I waited.

Morning arrived, empty-handed.
Another day passed.
Still nothing.
I reminded myself—
patience has always been
one of my truest teachers.

Then, the following day,
a friend spoke casually of her own dream,
and something stirred,
a faint vibration in the depths of memory.
It carried me back—

to a six-year-old child
in the hills of India,
standing utterly still
as a flute sent its music
flowing through the valley.

The sound entered me
before language,
before knowing.
And in that instant I decided:
When I grow up,
I will live in the hills
and play the flute every evening.

That was my dream.

At fifteen, I tried to learn.
One lesson only.
No training followed.
No flute.
No music.
The dream dissolved,
quietly, without ceremony.

That night, the question returned, reshaped:
What became of that child
who wanted to be the flute player?

I woke near four in the morning,
the hour when truth speaks softly.
And then came a voice
I have learned to trust—
clear, certain, effortless.

It said:
Life turned you into a flute.

The words moved through my body
as a shiver of recognition.
Nothing more was needed.
The answer was complete.

Life had played me into being—
every act a note,
every loss a rest-,
every joy a breath of music.

I rose and danced a small, grateful jig.

For this is the essence:
as a child, I longed to play the flute.
Instead, life shaped me into one,
breathing its song through me—
through joys and losses,
through sound and silence.

What I sought was never missing.
It was always there:
a life, patiently fashioned into music.

Balbir’s friend, Kathy Miller, asked him this question as a follow-up to his “The Shadow of Light” and “The Defining Moments” stories: “What has been the life-long impact of your experience with the little flower?” 

Here is Balbir’s response:

Kathy, thank you for asking this question. It is important. The experience with the little flower was at the beginning of my life, in my state of unknowing and innocence. You are asking me to review that experience when I am 89, perhaps at the very tail end of my life. Thank you for this opportunity. 

A few days before my experience with the little flower, I spoke with my parents and asked them, “What is the meaning of life?” They had done their best to explain, but it was not satisfying to me as a six-year-old child. 

Later, walking on the side of a hill, I saw a tiny blue flower . . . perhaps only the size of two peas, but it radiated life. It was blue at first glance, but when I looked closer, it was an amalgamation of colors with beautiful veins. It radiated an intelligence that attracted that six-year-old boy to ask his most dominating question: What is the meaning of life?

There was an intelligence in the little flower that gave the little boy an answer that satisfied him. The child came in touch with something beyond. The child identified with the flower and, in that moment, they were one. The question never arose in the mind of the child again. 

The child felt small like the flower. Now, as an adult, my scientific knowledge supports that feeling. We live in a universe with billions of galaxies, with trillions and trillions more suns and planets, where our whole galaxy is like a grain of sand, and I would not register even as big as that flower. Looking back, I grasped that intuitively.

And yet, looking at that flower, it was magic. Its veins, its color, and its ability to answer my six-year-old child’s question were magical. That child understood that, even in the smallest of forms, one cannot only experience magic but be magical. One cannot comprehend the magic. One cannot change the magic or improve on the magic, but one can fully experience it. And when one is in tune with that magic, one becomes magical! Such is the mystery.

Egotistically thinking, one might think that the purpose of the little flower was to deliver that message to me. The child did not think that. The flower simply existed. The child stood in awe in front of the flower, unable to even touch it. If the purpose of the flower was to deliver the message, it was not aware of that. It was not worried about what the meaning of its life was. It was not worried about whether spring would come or rain or hot air. It simply experienced all those things. That little flower was born and died, totally content. For the flower, life was an end unto itself. The child learned from the flower that this is how all life is: Life is not a means to an end but an end in itself. 

The flower taught the child the simplicity of life, just to BE–not to BECOME–but to BE. So, my life has not been about changing or improving the world, but experiencing it to the fullest extent possible and participating in the magic. 

I have had many teachers in my life that have taught me many things, but as I grew up and learned new things and later delved into the books of religion and philosophy, I had a smile on my face each time I read something that I felt the flower had taught me at the age of six!

The child’s quest was fully answered: “Life is magical; it is to live and experience.” 

That encounter with the little flower was the seed for experiencing reverence, surrender, and awe. Over time, my soul prayer became “Thine, not mine shall be done.”

###

Life is a bundle of perspectives, and the exact opposite of what I have said is as valid as anything else. It’s not “how it is,” it is what my experience was with the flower.

Memory is highly selective. Take, for example, an event that took place when I was six years old. It was a few days after I raised the question of the meaning of life with my parents. 

I was walking down a narrow trail on the side of the mountain close to our cottage. I bent over to admire a solitary, tiny flower blooming on top of a very small, dark-green plant. 

Today I cannot recall the shape of the flower or the number of small leaves on the little plant. What I do remember are the tiny veins visible in the petals of the flower. From a distance, the flower was solid blue, but when I looked closer, it was an amalgamation of several shades of blue, intermingling in a joyful mood. All of that was taking place in this tiny body. I stood there, enchanted.

Then, with the innocence and tenderness available only to the very young at unguarded moments, I popped the question to the flower: “Can you tell me the meaning of life?” I was conversing with the flower as if I were talking to a new-born baby. I dared not touch the tiny miracle in front of me for fear of hurting it. The wonder in front of me was precious, priceless.

I have tried to look back and recollect that moment. Each time the same image comes back as I experienced it the first time. I can see a child with a flower, but I can only view that scene from above—as if hovering several feet above the scene. It looks like two indistinguishable souls, gazing at one another, each aware of the other.

I could not have articulated my feelings at that time, nor can I pull them into focus today. I just remember how, at that moment, I realized my smallness and vulnerability. One would think that for a child who had been coddled and pampered as if he were the center of the universe, as I had been, such an experience would have been disconcerting and threatening. The effect was quite different.

I remember a gentle feeling dawning upon me. I recall walking home with a big smile, as if walking on clouds. I did not know how to whistle, but there was music in my heart. The journey home seemed so short. 

During my lifetime I have seen thousands of flowers and admired their beauty, but the way I saw that particular flower on that particular day was out of this world.

All of us have experienced such moments—ones we can remember clearly, without memory of the things that happened before or after. There are numerous theories as to why this phenomenon is so common. I throw in one more speculation as to why this is the case. Perhaps some of those moments are when our day-to-day reality intersects with something transcendent. It is quite possible that in those rare and precious moments, when Heaven and earth dance together, we experience something that defines the rest of our lives.

The meeting with the bread company was rescheduled at their office. In that meeting I learned they were about to introduce a new bread. My antennae went up. 

“How about a promotion in which we share the information about your new bread with our supporters?” I asked. 

The president was intrigued. After several meetings, the bread company agreed to donate five cents a loaf from sales of the new bread during a one-month promotion in their region. 

It was a very generous offer and I told the president so. 

“We are a new non-profit start-up and our supporters are not that many,” I said. “The expected revenue will help launch our cash-strapped cause.”

“Your promotion will help identify our bread with a good cause,” he said.

Soon after the arrangement was finalized, the president, along with his vice president, came to our office to check us out. 

“To kick the tires,” the president said. They knew very little about us.

Until their visit, I had met them at their office. It was late in the afternoon. I was there with David Kimble, who had just joined us as a volunteer.

They walked up the flight of stairs to our one-room office in the church building, where a solitary old manual typewriter sat on a folding table. There was nothing else. They looked around.

“Do you have a copying machine?” the vice-president asked. 

It was a peculiar first question, I thought. Yet, with that question, I knew he could not only get to the bottom line immediately, he could convey a much larger message in one line. My respect for him went up a few notches. 

“No,” I answered. 

“Then how do you expect to run a large promotion like this?” He went right to the point.

 “Wait here. I will be right back,” I said. I walked down the stairs and out of the building without realizing what I was doing. A sudden dark fog had enveloped me. 

I got in my car not knowing where I was headed. At an intersection not far from the church, I noticed a business machine sales office. I stopped the car and went inside. I was somewhat out of breath and started to explain to the man on the floor that we were a new not-for-profit organization and needed a donation of a copying machine for the duration of a promotion. 

Before I could finish my fourth sentence, he motioned me to stop. 

“The machine is yours. It will be there in the morning,” he said. The gleam in his eyes baffled me. 

“Do you remember me?” he asked. I did not. He told me that several years before, when he had just joined the business as a salesman, I had purchased the first copying machine he had sold.

“You and your wife were such nice people. Glad to help,” he said. He was the owner of this business. 

“Thank you very much,” I said and immediately got back in my car. 

The two men were waiting, wondering where I had gone. Maybe 20 minutes had elapsed by the time I got back to the office, but for David that seemed like forever because the two guests were confirming to each other their doubts about this deal. 

“We have a copy machine,” I boldly announced as I walked into the room.

They wanted to know what happened and how I got the copy machine. They were so impressed by the story, they agreed to broaden the campaign by also enrolling their sister bread company in the adjoining region.

The bread company suggested we provide each buyer of the bread with some information about Trees for Life. They suggested half a million brochures. An advertising agency donated its services to design a brochure. However, we didn’t have any money to pay for printing.

I went to one of Wichita’s largest printing companies, asking it to donate 500,000 brochures. The man I met with laughed, literally. He cupped his hand behind his ear and asked, mockingly, “How many?”

He was not alone in telling me he had never heard of Trees for Life. Not too many people had. Naturally, I got the run-around and was told to see one person after another. I went to that printing company seven times, knowing well the odds I was facing. Finally, the president agreed to see me.

The president had been briefed ahead of my appointment. He was there with the manager I had first met.

“We are asked by many people for donations of printing,” the president said to me. “We have to turn them all down because if we did such a favor for one of them, we would not be able to turn the others down. We would have a serious problem on our hands. What is so special about your organization that we should help you?”

As I started to reply, I realized someone other than me was giving the answer. I felt a current go through me and instantly saw a spark light up in their eyes. Their faces changed. I knew they had agreed to make the donation.

Afterward, I racked my brain trying to recollect what words came out of my mouth, but to no avail. Years later, I ran into the former manager.

“What did you say to us that convinced us to give you that many brochures?” he asked, still incredulous after all those years. “We had never done that before.”

To keep our part of the bargain in the promotion, we talked to all the grocery chains in town. They all agreed to share the information about the bread promotion through their stores. The president of the largest chain with 100 stores complained that we should have done this promotion with his company’s bread instead. An outdoor billboard company gave us space on 75 billboards, at a cost of $35 for the printing and posting of each poster. I contacted all my friends and had the posters paid for by sponsors. Another company that printed bags offered to print 20,000 posters for our campaign. All the radio and television stations agreed to run public service announcements. 

The bread company was very pleased with the results of the promotion and gave us $23,000 as our share. Their sister company in the adjoining region sent us another $20,000. At that time, those were the largest donations we had ever received.

We were on our way. After that, I seldom heard anyone in the state say they didn’t know about Trees for Life. 

And the grocery chain whose president complained we should have done the bread promotion with his stores later collaborated with us on promoting another product. That promotion netted us more than $500,000 in donations over several years. 

The bread company’s president, an elderly gentleman, had prophesied, “The stars are aligned in your favor.”

Written December 5, 2008

It was September 21, 1958 when I first stepped onto United States soil.

Even after 50 years, I can vividly recall every detail. I can still feel my excitement at first sighting the American coastline and my tears upon landing at LaGuardia airport in New York.

I can picture being ushered through the immigration line by an impatient airline employee and a very patient immigration officer. I recall the jovial customs agent who taught me how to pronounce my destination: Wichita, Kansas. I remember my first New York taxi ride, my first hotdog, and my very first stay in a hotel.

It was one of those rare experiences in life when a dream comes true.

That dream first emerged when, at the age of eight, I had an unpleasant encounter with an occupying British soldier in India. The encounter shook me to my core and left me rebelliously wondering, “What gives that soldier power over me?”

Over the years, my anger was transformed into deeper philosophical questions: “Why are some people more powerful than others? Why are some communities or nations more powerful than others? What is the source of that power?”

My quest for answers to these questions brought me to America – the most powerful nation on the planet. In this new land I became an avid student. I sought out “movers and shakers” and asked them the secret of their success. They were delighted to oblige.

A twist of fate put me in the right place at the right time. In the ‘70s and ‘80s, international business was expanding by leaps and bounds. My knowledge and skills were highly sought after, and I was able to catch the rising tide. Soon I was traveling the world, arranging international business deals as a management consultant.

Along the way, I found a shining soul mate. The arrival of two beautiful children completed our family. The avid student in me had discovered the “formula for power” and made it my own. I was on top of the world.

But then, something happened.

I was on a business flight over the Mediterranean. I looked out my airplane window and was struck by a stray thought: If the Earth looks so small from a few miles up, how must it appear from a divine point of view?

Suddenly, I felt myself floating upward out of my seat – and out of the plane. As if in a dream, I traveled farther and farther away from the Earth, until it became a mere speck of dust floating In space.

From out of nowhere, I heard a voice. It asked me the question: “What do you see?”

Images flooded my mind in rapid succession. Experiences from my world travels fell into sharp contrast. I saw opulent riches and crushing poverty, wasteful gluttony and deadly hunger, extravagant revelry and hopeless despair.

Then, just as suddenly, I was back in my seat, as if nothing had happened. But I noticed an unfamiliar pain in one of my fingers.

Over the following weeks, the pain spread throughout my body. I became disabled, unable to walk. I felt as if my body were ninety years old. Internally, I felt deeply torn – as if my world had been fractured in two. I was trying desperately to reconcile the painful dichotomy I had been shown. But I could not.

Doctors could find no cure for my physical ills. I eventually tried fasting, on the suggestion of my sister. After five days with no food and very little water, something happened for which I have no explanation, no words. Perhaps it was what some call a vision. But at that moment there was a knowing. I knew why I was here on Earth.

At that moment, I knelt and dedicated the rest of my life to fighting world hunger. And, at that very moment, I was suddenly able to walk again.

The rest is history. It’s the story of a movement called Trees for Life.

Outwardly, I am still the same person, traveling around the world – more than 130,000 air miles last year alone. But internally, everything has changed

Now I am no longer seeking the source of power. I feel plugged into it. Each step I take is not taken to get somewhere, but as an act of prayer and worship. They are like steps in a dance.

I am still a kind of management consultant, but now my clients do not pay me handsomely. They have a hard enough time just trying to feed their own children. The young man who came here seeking power has ended up as a servant of the powerless.

So, as I celebrate the holidays for the fiftieth time in America, I shall bow my head in gratitude. Mine will be gratitude for the Mystery that transformed my dance, for the platform that has allowed it, and for all those who have made it possible.

Thank you for the dance.

Love, Balbir

Our daughter Tara was in 9^th grade when I started Trees for Life. It was now three years later and Tara was filling out college applications. She came to our bedroom to talk. It was late. Treva and I were both reading in bed, about to fall asleep. Tara lay down between us and asked if she should file for admission at Trinity University in San Antonio, Texas.

There was no question in our minds, because that was where she wanted to go. But her real question was different. Where was the money going to come from? We all knew that Trinity was an expensive school.

I told her that Treva and I had discussed it and planned to take a second mortgage on the house. To Tara, that was not practical. She was fully aware of our family finances and knew of our problems meeting the interest payments on our current loans, not to speak of taking substantial additional loans.

She panicked. “I’ll end up going to a university in Kansas!” 

I tried to reassure her, telling her to block all other universities out of her mind and not give any quarter to fear. I told her to build mental pictures of going to classes at Trinity, going to the cafeteria, and her dorm. I talked about the miracle of faith. I told her that I did not know how she would go to Trinity, but if that was what she wanted, then somehow events would make it possible.

Before opening my mouth, I knew I was off base and not responsive to her concerns. Her issues were practical and the only answers I could offer were esoteric. She was in tears and was not buying this faith business. She reminded me that I had assured her the money would be there when she was ready for college. She felt unfair punishment for my unilateral decisions in gambling our resources on Trees for Life. How long can one go on faith after all?

“Dad, two plus two equals four, doesn’t it?” She stalked out of the room, banging the door shut.

Treva went to Tara’s room to assure her of our love. I remained behind because my presence would have further ignited the situation. I was the culprit.

My condition was perhaps like that of a boxer who was pinned against the ropes and being pummeled. I felt the guilt of an alcoholic who had wasted the last of the family fortune. What if she was right?

Several months before, when our cash flow was very low, Treva and I had discussed how we were going to finance Tara’s college education. That evening my faith wavered, and I suggested that Treva might have to find another job. But that was not a real alternative because, without her, Trees for Life would fold. She was the soul. I wondered if I should take another job for a couple of years and let Treva proceed with Trees for Life. That was not practical either. What can a soul do without the body? I could feel the intensity of the struggle within me and sought guidance.

An inner knowing reminded me of the faith Columbus must have felt with his fearful crew on the verge of rebellion.

As Treva was consoling Tara, the silent voice with the power of a million tongues spoke: “You act as if she is your child.”

Instantly, it all became clear. I had forgotten my covenant not to identify with anything on earth. She was God’s child. I was not to usurp that heritage and call it mine.

I turned the lights off before Treva came back. I did not want her to see the big grin on my face. I was like Columbus leading on to a new world. There was no room for fear. Ahoy, mate. Treva would never have understood my lunacy.

There was indeed a feeling of joy. Over the past 50 years, one of the most valuable lessons I had learned was that two plus two makes four only in the most elementary sense. I would have liked to explain this to Tara, but that was not the way. She had to experience it herself. I was grateful that such an educational opportunity had been created for all of us.

This whole situation came flooding back to me soon afterwards when I received a phone call from a good friend, Larry Jones. President of the Coleman Company. We talked about our families, and I mentioned that Tara was applying to Trinity. He was very interested and told me that he was on the committee at Trinity to recommend students for scholarships. “Do you think Tara could come and talk with me sometime?” Larry asked. I was sure we could set something up.

Tara went to meet with him soon after that. A few days later we were notified she had received a sizable scholarship to Trinity—enough to tilt the scales so Tara could attend. I thanked Larry for his help, though I knew I was expressing my thankfulness to the Source behind him.

It had taken me hundreds of miracles before it dawned on me that two plus two, when fused together, can make not just four, but infinity.

Most mythologies contain one or more figures that are partly human and partly animal. In Hindu mythology there are several such figures, including one called Ganesh. This benign pear shaped body is human but the head is an elephant. Ganesh is considered the symbol of wisdom and good luck, and thus most worship services start by first inviting the presence of Ganesh into the gathering—if wisdom is present, good luck shall naturally follow.

So why is this human figure with a gigantic elephant head the symbol of wisdom? Because it is believed that we humans share four basic needs with the entire animal life: hunger, procreation, sleep, and the fight or flight response. Out of these basic needs emerge the secondary traits, such as the desire to acquire, competitiveness, envy, lust, sloth, and killing. 

At the same time, human beings possess traits that are attributed to angels and God. We consider God the ultimate creator. Likewise, humans are highly creative by any standard. We pray to God for solving our problems, yet humans are problem solvers. We associate love, empathy, giving, mercy and compassion with God. Again, we humans possess those qualities in abundance. 

We human beings are a unique container filled with opposing, contradictory qualities and attributes. We are highly creative and yet highly destructive. We are filled with mercy and compassion, and yet we participate in the killing of other people. We are generous and give and share our resources, yet we may acquire by force what belongs to others. The list of these contradictory traits is considerable.

Hindu mythology humanizes these contradictory attributes and creates a metaphor of two opposing armies of equal strength engaged in an endless war. The strife is going on internally within us and we, in turn, project it onto the outside world—just like a small slide may be projected onto a giant screen.

So wisdom is the recognition that we are a fusion of both the animal and the angels—just like two wings of a bird. A bird, however, uses both its wings to rise above the surface and chooses what direction to fly. 

The surface we have to rise above is the tension caused by this fusion. The differences between the paths that are led by our animal instincts and most angelic aspirations are sometimes very subtle and can confound us mortals. Trying to sort this out is where the human tension lies. Therefore, prayers ask for the wisdom to discriminate between the two and for the courage to follow our noble traits rather than the destructive instincts.

It may also be noticed that, in the figure of Ganesh, the body is that of a human and the head is that of an animal. That, too, has a meaning. Traits such as love, sympathy, kindness, and selflessly helping others are elements associated with our hearts rather than with our heads.

I share the above mythology to point out that irrespective of any beauty that one may end up seeing in this narrative, the war-like dance of the opposing dragons of Yin and Yang remains intact within me.

As long as my mother was alive, I looked forward to hearing her tell this story of The Dead Snake during every celebration of Diwali (the Hindu Festival of Lights). My mother had been told this story by her mother-in-law. My mother told it year after year with great reverence and solemnity—not with the lightness that I am going to tell it here. After all these years, this story still remains one of my favorites. 

Once upon a time, a learned man had been out of work for quite some time. As a result, the family had used up all their savings, owed money to shopkeepers, and had to depend upon their neighbors and friends for their daily sustenance. 

Tired and fed up with such poverty, one night the wife insisted her husband go and look for a job the next day. In the morning after the learned man had taken his shower and gotten dressed in his best white clothes, as was the custom of those days, she walked him to the door. 

“Do not come back empty handed; take the very first thing you find,” she admonished him as he left the house. Personally, he had no hopes of finding a job. 

The man had hardly gone a hundred yards from his home when he found a dead snake on the street. 

The man picked up the lifeless snake and brought it home.

“What on earth is this?” croaked his surprised wife, who had just started to get ready for the day. “And what are you doing back home so soon?”

“You told me to take the very first thing I found. Well, I found this snake and I brought him home.”

“Stupid husband of mine, that is not what I meant,” shouted his wife.

The husband quickly changed into his house clothes and settled down to read. 

Exasperated, his wife picked up the snake, took it out to the courtyard and gave it a hard and wild toss. She did not realize that the dead snake ended up on their roof. 

Later that morning, the queen of that land was being readied by her maid servants for a bath in the garden tub. They had just removed her diamond necklace and put it aside when an eagle flying overhead saw her necklace glittering in the sunshine and swooped down to pick it up. 

There was a commotion in the queen’s quarters, but the necklace was gone. The king’s town crier was sent out to make an announcement that the queen had lost her diamond necklace and anyone returning it would be handsomely rewarded. There was no internet or television news flashes in those days, so it took the town crier the whole day to make this announcement far and wide.

Meanwhile, the eagle realized that all that glitters is not food. It saw the dead snake on the roof of the poor couple’s house. The eagle swooped down once again, this time to trade the diamond necklace for the dead snake. 

The roofs in India, where it does not snow, are flat. People often sleep on the roof during summer when it can get very hot inside the house. In those days there was no air-conditioning nor electricity for fans. That night, when the learned man and his wife went on the roof to sleep, they found the glittering diamond necklace. They knew whose necklace it was and were afraid that the king might think they stole it. All night long they could not sleep. 

The next morning, mustering all his courage, the husband  took the necklace to the king and, to his surprise, he was, indeed handsomely rewarded. Obviously, his wife was very pleased with this turn of events. She asked her husband to buy all kinds of food for a celebration and oil for their lights. She asked him to settle all their debts, and she spent the whole day preparing sweets for the friends and neighbors who had helped them during their hard days. 

For months and months, they had had no mustard oil to burn in the diyas. Diyas were small, earthen candle-like lights that burned vegetable oil. During that time there was no kerosene and, of course, no electricity.

That night the couple decorated by illuminating each and every room with diya lights, including a light in the “mori,” a small hole in the wall where it joins the floor. 

On that same night, Lakshmi, the angel of prosperity, went out into the universe to take a stroll and happened to pass by the earth. There she saw darkness everywhere but, in one house, she saw light. Curious, she stopped by and knocked at the door.

“Who is that?” asked the learned man, who was joyously reading by the new lights.

“It is Lakshmi,” came back the soothing voice of the angel.

“Go away,” the man answered. “Material prosperity is fickle. I do not want you. I would rather have knowledge.”

“Let me in; I will not leave you,” Lakshmi assured him.

“You always say that to every person you visit,” the man answered, more determined than ever.

Lakshmi was not used to being rejected. Instead, everyone prayed for her presence and welcomed her with open arms. She was curious to see the person who would reject her offers. She walked around to find an opening to the house. All doors were shut. Then, Lakshmi saw a little flicker of light in the mori opening. She went in through the mori and promised the man that she would never leave their house. 

And, as stories go, the couple lived happily ever after.

XXXX

I’ve picked up a lot of dead snakes in my life! And I’m not unique. 

I invite you, the readers, to share your story of how a small event led to a major change in your life: “What dead snake did you pick up?”

This will be an act of love for which I will be grateful. 

Leave your comments here or send your story to balbir@treesforlife.org.

A work of fiction by Balbir.

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there lived a young man named Ramsu. He loved to travel. On one of his travels, he came upon a lake so large its distant shores could not be seen. This lake was filled with fresh water. Beautiful fish of all kinds swam leisurely in the deep, calm waters that reflected the clear blue sky above.

On the shores of this lake lived a tribe whose forefathers had migrated from a distant land where the water source had dried up. Those who survived the long journey and found the lake called themselves the “Lake People.”

In the land of their forefathers, the only food they could grow was cassava. Although these people had come to this land a few generations ago, they still ate only cassava. As a result, their growth was stunted and they were often sick. Many of them died young. 

Ramsu started to catch fish and roast them on an open fire at the banks of the lake. Wondering what this stranger was doing, curious people gathered around, and Ramsu shared the roasted fish with them. They didn’t know that fish could be eaten. In a short time, the health of those eating fish began to improve. 

Their tribal custom had taught them to be kind and hospitable, so they wanted to do something for Ramsu in return. He told them simply, “Teach two other people that they can eat fish.” The word spread, and the number of people coming to Ramsu in hopes of eating the new food increased. Ramsu had to work long hours to feed them all.

Then, one day, Ramsu went back to his hometown. His friends and relatives were excited to see him and hosted a great feast with all of Ramsu’s favorite foods. After many toasts with the best of wines, they asked Ramsu to tell about his experiences, for he had been gone a long time. With great enthusiasm, he told them about his stay with the Lake People. 

Someone raised his glass and offered a toast, “Here’s to the Fish Man.”

Another person asked, “Fish Man, how many fish did you catch?”

“Let’s see,” Ramsu answered. “I caught between 20 and 30 fish each day to feed the people. This I did for at least a year, so I must have caught more than 6,000 fish.” 

“Wow,” everyone gasped.

“How can we help you, Fish Man?” they asked.

“I need some fishing rods so I can teach people how to fish for themselves.” They gladly provided him with all that he could carry, which was only a handful.

Back at the lake, the people were thrilled to learn how to fish. Now they could catch more fish, and more people could be fed. In their generosity, they wanted to do something for the Fish Man, but he insisted only that they just teach two others how to fish.

Catching fish was exciting and there were more people wanting to fish, but Ramsu had been able to bring only a handful of fishing rods with him. So he went back home again. Because the tales of his work had spread and he had become known as the Fish Man, more people gathered to see him. After the feast, one person from the crowd asked, “Fish Man, how many fish have you caught?”

Ramsu explained that he was no longer catching fish; instead he was teaching the Lake People how to fish for themselves. They liked the idea. “How can we help you, Fish Man?” they asked. They had expected to send with him many more fishing rods, but instead Ramsu asked if they knew anyone who could teach him how to plant bamboo.

“Plant bamboo?” they asked, puzzled. 

“So people can make their own fishing rods,” Ramsu explained. The people were disappointed that they could not give him more fishing rods and none of them knew how to plant bamboo.

Finally Ramsu found one old man who knew how to plant bamboo. No one had ever asked the old man for that knowledge before. He was delighted to help Ramsu and even gave him a handful of stock to get a plantation started near the lake. He lamented his old age and said he wished he could have gone with Ramsu.

Back at the lake, Ramsu organized a small group of youth to plant and take care of the bamboo plantation. When the bamboo crop reached a sufficient height, Ramsu went back home again. 

This time there were fewer people at the feast and the quantity and quality of food had diminished. After dinner someone asked, “Fish Man, how many fish did you catch?” Ramsu told them that thanks to the fishing rods, people were now catching their own fish. “I have not caught many fish myself because I’ve been busy planting and taking care of the new bamboo crop,” Ramsu said.

“We thought he was a Fish Man,” Ramsu’s old aunt grumbled to his mother. “Why is he planting bamboo?” 

“Do you need more bamboo stock to take with you?” asked the old man. Ramsu did not need any more because he was teaching people how to multiply bamboo from the shoots of the original stock. Instead, Ramsu wanted to know if anyone could teach him how to make fishing rods. One person knew another person who might know someone who could teach Ramsu how to make fishing rods.

When Ramsu had learned how to make fishing rods, he went back again to the lake, teaching people to make their own fishing rods out of bamboo grown on the plantation. Again, when asked what they could do for him, he told them, “Teach two people how to make fishing rods.” 

It was not long before nearly everyone had his or her own fishing rod. However, they knew only one way to cook fish—to roast it. Ramsu realized that a wide variety of fish recipes would enhance the interest of the people. 

Ramsu went home again to find a chef. This time there was no feast. One passerby in the street asked him, “Fish Man, how many fish did you catch?” There was sarcasm in his voice. Ramsu just smiled.

An old retired chef was glad to take the opportunity to travel with Ramsu. A culinary school was started at the lake. People from all around the lake came to learn. Following Ramsu’s tradition, the chef asked each student to teach two others. 

After some time, Ramsu went back home again. This time he was looking for someone who could explain to people that fish were not only delicious but also good for them because it would make them grow stronger and live longer. 

Those who met Ramsu on the street asked, “Fish Man, how many fish did you catch?” They grumbled, “The Fish Man has become confused and does not know what he is doing. One day he was catching fish but he lost interest in that, then he became a farmer but lost interest in that and became a chef. Seems like now he has lost interest in that also and he is trying his hand at something else again.” Others said, “I bet he has never caught a fish in his life. He just made up the stories.”

xxx

Many years passed and Ramsu became an old man. 

One day, Ramsu saw a young boy fishing on the lake and stopped to watch him. “Good morning old man, would you like to learn how to fish?” the young boy asked. “Don’t be afraid. You can learn it. I can teach you.”

Ramsu smiled. The boy could not have been more than eight years old. Ramsu sat down beside him, eager to learn from the young master.

“When my grandfather taught me how to fish, he told me to teach two others but I teach two people every day,” the boy said. “You are one of the two people I will teach today.”

“Who is your grandfather?” the old man asked.

The young boy pointed to a sign that said Jared’s Restaurant. “He’s my grandfather,” the young boy said proudly. 

Ramsu’s thoughts took him back many years to when he had first come to the lake and started to catch fish and feed children. There was a young boy named Jared who would not come near him. The boy always stayed at a distance, quietly watching. Over the years, Ramsu had seen Jared grow until he became the owner of a small fish restaurant. And now Jared’s grandson was Ramsu’s tutor.

The young man interrupted Ramsu’s thoughts, “My name is Jonathan, what’s your name?”

“Ramsu.” He reached out and shook Jonathan’s hand.

“You will make a good teacher, Jonathan. If you will teach me how to fish, I will teach you how to be a teacher,” Ramsu told him.

xxx

Today travelers from around the world flock to the land of the Lake People to feast on the sumptuous fish delicacies for which they are famous. Roadside stands peddle fried, roasted, and sautéed fish, as well as specialty fish dishes from Europe, Asia, Africa and the Middle East. 

There is always a line of people waiting for a table at Jared’s Restaurant. The taste and appearance of its fine entrées are enhanced by numerous cassava side dishes. The restaurant’s cassava recipe comes from Mama Jared, who got it from her grandmother, who brought it from the Old Country. Mama Jared was one of the first students at the culinary school, and the first cook when her husband started their family restaurant. But all that was more than 150 years ago.

While they are visiting the Lake People, travelers often tour the National University, known for its culinary department and its study of marine life and bamboo species. The Lake People have Dr. Jonathan to thank for founding the university. He is the same Jonathan who once taught an old man how to fish.

Near the top of the mountain, I looked down. My two companions and the local guide were waiting next to the black car in which we had crossed three hills and four valleys. I could see them—they looked like mere specks—but they could not see me because of the mighty rocks and foliage around me.

I realized that, for some reason, I had to climb this mountain alone; they could not accompany me. I tried to think of the reason and could not remember, but it did not matter. I was surprised, though, that I had climbed so high.

As I turned my head to move forward, I saw a village. It had not been there a moment ago. I wondered, trying to justify its presence, if perhaps it had been hidden in the mountainside and could not be seen by anyone coming up the hill. It looked like a primitive village that had been frozen in time.

Near the edge of the village I saw a bearded man coming toward me. With him was a donkey loaded with firewood. He passed me on the narrow road without looking at me. I nodded, but he did not pay any attention. His attire caught my eye. He was dressed in several layers of warm clothes, yet he was barefoot.

I had the feeling that the man said something to me, although I did not hear any sound or see his lips move. I looked back to see him disappear around a bend. I had a funny sensation that the donkey was smiling at me, even though I was looking at his rear end. I was sure that I had also heard the wood greet me. Then I realized, “Ah, I am in the Enchanted Land.”

I entered the village through what appeared to be the marketplace. It consisted of a narrow road with shops on both sides. It was a small market, and in a few moments I had walked to its end. There were some dwelling places, but they blended so well into the hillside that they were difficult to see. On the side of the hill was a house from which a little girl watched me. From her vantage point, she could see my every movement. I waved at her, but she did not respond.

I went back to the market. I observed that there was only one shop for each kind of merchandise or service. There was only one grocery store, one barber shop, one potter, and so forth. The shops were relatively well-stocked with goods, but there were no customers. Yet, the shopkeepers were engrossed in some kind of work.

The colorful display of the fabric store caught my attention—the materials were absolutely out of this world. It was obvious that the shopkeeper had not arranged the colors intentionally, but the result was striking.

I felt as if I were being drawn into the colors, as if I were being sucked into the display. I found my attention focused on one piece of cloth. It was perhaps the most intricate design and best-woven piece of material in the whole shop. Yet, there was a layer of dust on the cloth as if it had lain there untouched for ages. I wondered why such a beautiful cloth had not found a buyer. This should have been the first piece of cloth to be sold. Why did it remain on the shelf?

As I wondered, the piece of cloth spoke to me. Somehow I was not surprised. After all, this was an Enchanted Land. The cloth told me the following story.

*****

Many years ago, the people of the realm were preparing for the coronation of a young king. Special fabric was ordered for the coronation gown. As the weaver wove the cloth, he sang this song:

Oh, you common piece of cotton,

How lucky you are!

For you are the one who shall make

The mightiest of the land look even mightier.

For you shall adorn the most adorable.

For you will touch the skin of the one who cannot be touched by any other.

Oh, you common piece of cotton,

How lucky you are!

For you bring me the honor of touching you.

The weaver would sing this song with great devotion. The whole town knew when he was weaving the cloth, and they would rejoice. People stopped by each day to see the progress of the cloth. So, the cloth knew all too well what its destiny was to be.

Then, one day when the weaving was finished, an old man came to buy the cloth that was meant for the king. But the cloth would have none of that. She protested with all her might.

“But, I am the tailor!” explained the old man.

“Go away, old man!” the fabric shouted. “I know your ways. You will cut me into pieces. I am too important to be cut up. Do you realize who I was made for? Only he can touch me.”

Reluctantly, the old tailor bought another piece of cloth and left. This piece of cloth was nothing compared to the first one, but he made do. 

Day after day, the beautiful cloth waited for the king. But he never came.

On the day of the coronation the king paraded through the streets dressed in his royal gown. The beautiful cloth was shocked to see that the other piece of cloth had been made into the king’s gown. “What an outrage!” she shouted. “That was my destiny—mine and mine alone. How could this have happened?”

*****

As the cloth was telling me this story, I saw an old man pass by. His body was hunched over with age. He wore thick, bifocal lenses on wire frames. The skin on his hands was shriveled. Yet, he carried himself with great dignity and radiated an aura of love.

I was not quite sure whether I was really seeing the old man or seeing the memory of the person. It was as if he was made of a fine mist. The street was now filled with fog. I followed the man. He was aware that I was following him, but he pretended not to notice. 

The old man walked a short distance, and then went through a big gate which led into a courtyard. On the other side of the courtyard was a much smaller door and he had to bend low to get through. I followed him. On the other side, the old man was ushered into the presence of the king. I could only get a glimpse of the king, as my view was partially blocked by the tailor. The king did not seem to notice me.

The king was an old man himself, with a long gray beard. He invited the tailor to sit in a place of honor. It was obvious that the king had great respect for the man. This was the man who made the king’s clothes and made him look good. The king called him “Master Sahib.”

I went back to the fabric shop. As I gazed at the beautiful cloth, she whispered sadly, “I was the one who did not recognize the Master when he came.”