Victory of a Loss. (Haar ki Jeet)

It was a fine horse that the highly revered Baba Bal Bharti had. A mere sight of the stallion evoked excitement and awe in all who gazed upon. The king pleased with the Baba’s accurate predictions, had gifted him that horse. Baba, a fakir, lived in a village temple premises where he had built his hut and a stable for his horse whom he named Sultan.

Khadag Singh a much-feared dacoit used to 
visit Baba as a devotee. Baba never judged anyone, embracing all who came to his door.

“I’ve heard a great deal about your horse,” Khadag Singh said, “I would like to see it too.”
The ever enthusiastic Baba took him to his stable.




“Incredible!” Khadag said, patting the glistening black down of the glorious animal. “Indeed, this is the finest steed I’ve ever seen.”
“My life has found a new meaning with the arrival of Sultan.” Baba’s chest swelled with pride and he ran his hands through the horse’s mane. “Every day is a beautiful day now!”

At Khadag’s bidding, Baba let him take Sultan for a ride. The majestic stallion galloped faster than the blowing wind. What strength, control and speed! The swell of envy washed Khadag’s heart with feelings of covetousness and jealousy. Of what use was a horse to a saint; Sultan should have been his property, his companion, he thought. He tethered it in the stable and they went back inside the hut where Khadag offered to buy it.

“Not in a million years!” Baba protested.
After a bit of haggling when Khadag realized that Baba was not willing to part with Sultan at any cost, he warned, “One day, I’ll take this horse from you.”
“No, Khadag, please. I can’t live without my Sultan. He is like my son”
“Whatever,” Khadag said shrugging, in a disrespectful manner “I’m going to get him by hook or by crook.” And with that he left. 

Baba would ride Sultan taking the stallion for a run each day. One fine evening, as Baba was riding in the forest on the outskirts of the village, he heard a faint voice filled with agony, “Please help me, I’m dying,” 

In the fading light Baba ji saw someone curled up on the ground, completely smeared in dust.
“What happened?” Baba asked, still on his horse.
“Please take me to a safe place, I need medical help.” he pleaded. “Khadag Singh and his men mugged me.”
“But, I don’t even know you.”
“I’m the brother of the famous doctor Durga Dutt,” he said in a strained voice, clutching his stomach. “Please, I beg you. Help this needy person.”

No true Baba will refuse someone who needs help.  He got down and helped the man climb on the horse with great difficulty. Before Baba could mount, however, the supposedly injured man took the reins in his hands and gave Baba a mighty kick in his chest leaving him sprawled on the ground.

“I told you,” the rider said victoriously, “one day this horse would be mine.”
He heeled the horse but barely had he gone a few yards when Baba roared, “Stop! Khadag Singh.” Khadag couldn’t ignore his Guru’s voice, plus he had nothing to be afraid of. He was armed and on the horse. So, he halted.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Baba murmured as he got closer and dusted his robe. “Just don’t make any mention of this incident. You can have Sultan.”
“Why?” Khadag chuckled, stroking Sultan. “Are you afraid that people will say how can this Baba bless us if he couldn’t even save his own horse?”
“You see, Khadag,” Baba said, “if people find out, no one will ever trust another person in need. People will stop helping each other.” And with that, Baba Bal Bharti turned around and walked away from Sultan like he never loved him and with the detachment befitting a saint.

Khadag rode away with great pride and Baba took solace thinking now he had nothing to worry about for there was nothing left to lose. With each passing day, Khadag became increasingly restless. How could I do that to my Guru? What beast in me made me stoop so low? 

Rather than getting mad at me, Baba thought compassionately about the world. How calmly he walked away from the horse he had said he couldn’t live without… many similar thoughts plagued him. 

In the dead of the night, he went to the temple, quietly tied the horse to its post and sneaked out.

In the morning, one weeping and one neighing, both Baba ji and Sultan were overjoyed to be reunited. Baba ji leaned against his Sultan resting his face on his long neck, caressing and stroking, tears streaming from Baba’s eyes. “Oh Sultan,” he said, “now people will not be afraid to help those in need.”

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This story (Haar ki jeet) was penned by the phenomenal Hindi writer Pandit Sudarshan (1895-1967).
You can also view 'Haar ki Jeet' short movie in Hindi
My thanks to Ram Chhetri ji for sharing this wonderful message.

God everywhere and in all things - Chief Seattle

 In 1855 President Franklin Pierce of the United States made a “request” to Chief Seathl of the Suwamish tribe of Indians (who lived in what is now the State of Washington) to “sell” his land to the government. In reply, Chief Seathl sent the following letter to the President:

The great chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. The great chief also sends us words of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him, since we know that he has little need of our friendship in return. But we will consider your offer, for we know that if we do not do so, the white man may come with guns and take our land.

How can you buy or sell the sky—the warmth of the land? The idea is strange to us. Yet we do not own the freshness of the air or the sparkle of the water. How can you buy them from us?

Every part of this earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore,every mist in the dark woods, every clearing and humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people. We know that the white man does not understand our ways. One portion of the land is the

same to him as the next, for he is a stranger who comes in the night and takes from the land whatever he needs. The earth is not his brother, but his enemy, and when he has conquered it, he moves on. His appetite will devour the earth and leave behind only a desert. The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the red man. But perhaps it is because the red man is a savage and does not understand. 

If I decide to accept, I will make one condition. The white man must treat the beasts of this land as his brothers. What is man without beasts? If all the beasts were gone, men would die from great loneliness of the spirit, for whatever happens to the beasts also happens to man.One thing we know which the white man may one day discover: Our God is the same God. You may think that you own Him as you wish to own our land. But you cannot. He is the God of men. And His compassion is equal for the red man and the white. 

This earth is precious to Him. And to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its Creator. The whites, too, shall pass—perhaps sooner than other tribes. Continue to contaminate your bed and you will one night suffocate in your own waste. When the buffaloes are all slaughtered, the wild horses all tamed, the sacred corner of the forest heavy with the scent of men, and the view of the ripe hills blotted by talking wives, where is the thicket ? Where is the eagle? And what is it to say goodbye to the shift and the hunt? The end of living and the beginning of dying.

There is no quiet place in the white man’s cities. No place to hear the leaves of spring or the rustle of insect wings. But perhaps because I am a savage and do not understand—the clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the lovely cry of the whippoorwill or the argument of the frogs around a pond at night? The Red Indian prefers the

soft sound of the wind itself cleansed by the midday rain, or scented with a pine. The air is precious to the red man, for all things share the same breath—the beasts, the trees, the man. The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a man dying for many days, he is numb to the smell.

We might understand if we know what the white man dreams, what hopes he describes to his children on long winter nights, what visions he burns into their minds, so that they will wish for tomorrow. But we are savages. The white man’s dreams are hidden from us.

And because they are hidden, we will go on our own way. If we agree, it will be to secure our reservation you have promised. There perhaps we may live out our brief days as we wish. When the last red man has vanished from the earth, and the memory is only the shadow of a cloud moving across the prairie, these shores and forests will still hold the spirits of my people, for they love this earth as the newborn loves its mother’s heartbeat. If we sell you our land, love it as we loved it, care for it as we have cared for it, hold in your mind the memory of the land, as it is when you take it, and with all your strength, with all your might, and with all your heart, preserve it for your children, and love it as God loves us all. One thing we know—your God is

the same God. The earth is precious to Him. Even the white man cannot be exempt from the common destiny.

Chief Seattle

(Letter released by the United States Government as part of the Bicentenary celebrations).

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The only known photograph of Chief Seattle, in 1864 (c. 1780 - June 7, 1866). Chief Seattle (anglicised name) was a Suquamish (or Suquampsh) Chief (possibly also a Duwamish Chief), also known as Si'ahl, Sealth, Seathle, Seathl or See-ahth. Seattle in Washington was named after him.

"We are all one Tribe,  the Human Tribe... "

"Native American isn't blood. It is what is in the heart. The love for the land, the respect for it, those who inhabit it, and the respect and acknowledgement of the spirits and elders. That is what it is to be Indian."

              White Feather, Navajo Medicine Man