History - The story of .....

The History of Mankind is not the story of the entire human race. Rather, it is the tale of a few men – men with fire in their eyes and courage in their hearts, men who stood for some principles, lived for them and died for them. It is the story of Gandhi, of Hitler and of Socrates. Better still, it is the story of triumph of ideals over the commonplace, of determination and dedication over haplessness.
Seems improbable, isn’t it? Well let’s conduct a small experiment. How many of us remember our great-grandfather’s name? Or, to put it in another way, how many of us are sure our great – grandchildren will ever hear of us? On the other hand, how many of us feel that Gandhi will ever be forgotten?
Modern day society has a knack of ‘ensuring compliance’ with its changing ideals. Starting from peer pressure to mud slinging and utmost efforts to crush soaring spirits, its instruments are many. It is in this context that the glory of an idealist is enhanced. For the grass that bends in the direction of the wind is trampled upon while the mighty tree that stands tall despite the gales is looked up to.
In the name of adjustment, of being practical, we find that we change our ideals so very often. Sometimes it’s a crisis and some other time, a chance of some material gain. Whatever be the reason, we compromise ever so often. As a result, what do we find? As Ayn Rand puts it in her book “Fountainhead” in reference to the character Roark, “Of all of us, only he will be immortal – immortal not in the sense of deathlessness but rather because he lives for a single ideal. When he is remembered, he’ll be remembered for it. But we, who change our thinking every single moment, we who are never constant even in life, what will we represent after death?”
So those of you out there who pride on being practical, think thou that “Here is one against us”? But you couldn’t be further away from truth. I am one of you, a proud drop in the ocean of mediocrity, another sickening crab among the many in the basket. Fools they are, those who do not change, for haven’t we been taught that change is the only constant thing in life? So what if they are called ‘great noble men’, they are still fools if they cannot sell but a chip of their soul for wealth in real sense, who prefer white to the dazzling array of colours that our world offers (What is white for if not to be used as a base of the myriad colours?)
So what if they are remembered for ever, we are comfortable while we are. We can look them in their eyes, our noses turned up. With scornful mirth, we laugh at their abject poverty, their lack of commonsense to grab opportunities with both their hands. So what if they lord about in their fancy principles, we can still crush them with our money and equalize the scores. And we are within our rights to do it, after all doesn’t every street dog bark at the mighty elephant?
Yet, at the end of the day, it is who you are and not what you have that matters. And it is here that they checkmate us. When, on the weighing scales, stripped of everything we cherish, we find that our net worth is next to nothing, and they, out of friendliness, offer a shoulder to lean on, only then do we realize the value of ideals. Immortality has many ways unto itself. Every page in History has a name inscribed in bold, and each name evokes a response from the students of History. Behind each name is an ideal diligently followed, a principle never compromised. And behind each response lie the intent and the outcome of the uncompromised principle. If Hitler’s fervent belief in ‘Aryan Superiority’ and its consequences draw an involuntary gasp and shudder, Gandhiji’s ‘Non-Violent Movement’ raises the consciousness of individuals and nations. So what is it that makes one ideal admirable and another despicable?
An ideal should be such that it concurs with the dictates of the conscience. Not only the ideal, but also the means of achieving it should follow the lead provided by the conscience. After all, there comes a time when we need to face the “man in the mirror” and we would need to face him with confidence, understanding, honesty and with no regret. It is this ability to face the “man in the mirror” that will assure us our own place in the Book of Time. History will remember us, not only as great and well-known, but also as good and well-loved. This is all the difference between Hitler and Gandhi, Bose and Dyer, Socrates and his accusers.
I started off by saying “The History of mankind is not the story of the entire human race”. Let me correct myself. The History of Mankind is the story of the entire human race – for only he can be called a man who has the courage to stand by his ideal, an ideal that not only raises his stature in the eyes of his fellowmen, but more importantly, enhances it in his own. For only about them can it truly be said:
Nasti Thesham Yeshah Kaye Jara Maranajam Bhayam.

Nineteen too less ......

It was another day as usual. The first light of sun, and the sorrows began. The first were the set of people going in haste to complete their daily ablutions. Thank god, I was only trampled upon. Next were the tillers of the land, eager to scratch me and try to extract something from my already depleted resources. The day progressed with agonizing slowness, second upon second, hot sun upon me, not a drop to soothe my parch. And then relief – short-lived though, the setting sun and a night breeze that soothed the worn out limbs. And then the next day - the same milieu, again and again and again over countless millennia.

Centuries have gone by but the routine never changed. And then one day, there comes along a potter. Instead of scratching on the surface, he digs deep within. And with all the knowledge and skill, love and patience, he shapes me on his wheel, carefully engraving mystical symbols and lovely designs – a pat here and a tap there. And then, oh its hell. Three days in blazing fire – no difference between night and day. Centuries of torture seem pleasant in comparision. But all is not lost – here he comes – a harbinger of salvation. With even more love and a lot more skill – total concentration to the fore, and a lump of clay is now a coveted ceramic.

Bidding starts and value quoted is beyond anything I heard before. And from being below feet, I am now placed in at prime locales, people showcasing me as the prized possession.

And people ask me how educare transformed my life!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nineteen years is a long time, it’s long enough to see changes that a hand can wrought. I still remember the time when we used to sit under the huge tree (I am not sure what tree it was) and play in sands during the darshan. My mind’s eye still sees as though yesterday the instances when we used to, in the order of roll call, go to the Lord and receive from His hands our khaki pant and shirt. The sand gave way to cement, cement to marble (that used to grow so scorching that swami ordered for carpets to be spread), marble to the current flooring, a shelter from the sweltering sun, a movable roof for ventilation, gold plating for the roof and then the hall extend till it can extend no further.

Nineteen years is a long time, it is long enough to witness the beginnings of festivals – It was in my 9th class, on Nov 18 during the discourse (I was lucky to be part of the group that chanted Vedam before the discourse) Swami declared that, thenceforth, Nov 19 would be dedicated in honour of ladies.

Nineteen years is long enough to play a squirrel’s role in the actualization of a glorious vision. I remember, as a kid in primary school, Swami had announced the construction of the Super Specialty Hospital and the institute boys got permission to help with the work on the site. I rued the fact that I was still to young to participate in the glorious work. But Swami never disappoints – and so after a gap of almost a decade, He started the construction of the second Super Specialty Hospital at Bangalore. I will never forget the window that I scrubbed clean of cement and paint – for that, I count, was closest to perfect that I have achieved till now.

Nineteen years is long enough to see the birth of revolutions – the Grama Seva that has given manifold models to the SSSO and can count, amongst its beneficiaries, many who have not visited Parthi. In my opinion, the first Grama Seva was the best, more because it was slightly ad hoc and that added to the joy. There was an occasion when we went to one of the villages in the Central Trust truck. The uniqueness of this truck was that it had a big hole in the central portion. So you had all of us clinging on to the sides of the truck (or at least to a person who was clinging on to the side in case there was no handhold remaining) for dear lives. And in midst of all this you had Venkateswarulu sir singing Bhajans vigorously and encouraging us to participate in it. It may sound scary but these are the highlights of the Grama Seva that I treasure the most

But in midst of all this blur of activity there appears a spot of total calmness; go closer and you find the fulcrum has always remained the same. For what is nineteen years when compared to eternity if not a bat of the eyelid?

Nineteen years is short – too short to understand the concern of the Lord towards His children. It was when I set out to Parthi on 30th Dec that I realized, as I swung my shoulder bag on, that I hardly remember carrying a school bag splitting at the seams as is very common with school children today. And you know why – while the top academicians go about debating on ways to reduce the burden on students, Swami, in His quiet and effective way, built the Hostel and school in the same place, thus easing the shoulder of many a kid.

Nineteen years is too short for all but a glimpse of the unique bond between the students and the Lord. In its first avatar, Grama Seva used to go on till late evening and sometimes into the night. So you would have the Lord, at sharp 4:15 PM. pacing impatiently in the verandah, waiting for His boys to come. And then with a huge whoop “Jai bolo Bhagwan Sri Sathya Sai Baba Ji Ki Jai”, we would rush in and home on to Bhagwan. Clothes, faces and hands would be grimy, but when the river meets the ocean can any amount of sand stand an obstacle? He would lovingly enquire about the days proceeding and then ….. would again start pacing about, waiting for the next vehicle to arrive. This would continue till all are back home.

Those were glorious days, but they were too few, too short. The days have been so short and blessings so continuous that we never even had the time to think of expressing gratitude. And now I realize I have been loaded with so many gifts that the enormity overwhelms me. Names leap out of the sea of memories in an infinite succession of waves but I cringe at grasping any – for by grasping one I may commit the sacrilege of missing a thousand. I have been a bakery and kitchen boy most of my student life so let me express my gratitude in this metaphoric fashion (Those of you who do not know what a kitchen boy/bakery boy means, this is not the time or place. You’ll have to write an entrance, clear an interview and then you can have our beloved Warden sir explaining each of this in a more elaborate fashion than you could have asked for). To the primary school teachers who carefully cleaned and cleared me of any blemishes, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. To the Higher secondary school teachers who ensured consistency in my constituent mix, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. To the Brindavan teachers who baked me faultlessly, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. And to the Senior Boys Hostel teachers who then put on the most pleasing icing, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. And to Him who made this and much more happen,

Ye Hrudayamunosagitivo Isha Naaku
Marala DanineArpintu O Mahitamurthi
Araya Veremi Tettu Nee Archanaku Nenu
Anjali Gatinthu Andukovayya Neevu