Tag: Story

Watch “SECRET GULLY | THE BOY WITH NO NAME (Pt .2) | Little Lights” on YouTube

Inspired by a real life 5 year old I met one monsoon at a school for slum kids,

you’d never forget ‘Raju’ the school called him. His folks called him ‘chokra’ for street boy. There was no hatred at his home, only the face of poverty, the numbing face of sleepless days and nights. His parents were construction workers.

When Raju first arrived in a pair of oversized torn shorts, shirtless and with eyes like tiny thunder, he wouldn’t speak. I was story telling art teacher; we did some fun things, enacting Jesu in the boat. Raju loved being the storm.

By the third day we knew he loved drawing – with one crayon, the black one. He drew thick circles in black, then some more. Pages of black circles.

I was recovering from 3 years of a fever no one could diagnose, it could’ve been anything, but I was there every morning as a part of my own ‘get well’ project;

It was, is an unforgettable thing – to experience that sinking feeling of instability, physical failing, & be in a ‘Gully’ that thick with hope.

Lil Raju and I became speechless friends as we learned the power of blue against black, or orange with grey, yellow with maroon. He called me “didi”, big sis.

Every morning he was there, waiting for Art class, and drama, in the street opposite the tea shop.

On the last day I ever saw him he clutched my hand and said, “Didi mujhe ghar leke jao” (didi, take me home)

I loved him with all my heart, and I couldn’t take him home with me. There were at least 50 others like him but ofcourse Raju was the one no one liked. He was full of lice, his fingers were quick, he knew how to steal, he understood the street, he was scary to most. To me he was that little baby boy I couldn’t take home. But forever and ever he lives in my heart.

The boy with no name” is a fantasy offering that has little pieces of my own life woven in its prayers for joy, for all our streets, infested with poverties of more horrific proportions than we could’ve guessed. Do watch if you have the moment: return to childhood, listen again to that Still Small Voice that ceaselessly whispers to the heart of a child within us, or around. If there’s a kid (or kiddy- like human:) in your home, or neighbourhood, do share. This is the second episode. (Part I, U tube, also below).

Wishing you ‘The Light of the World.’

Shine, k?

Episode 1.
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The Boy With No Name

Happened in a few minutes, this one’s script, but the Time lapse + putting together, ah’m!

For actual kids and those with heart for the Unseen. Watch time – 9 mins., and special sound delivery 👉🏼 “Appey- man*” (line loan, Johann😀)

*fruit seller ‘Apple’

Healing from one bullet

I just saw this piece by Malala. If you haven’t heard about her, read on.

The chaos being experienced right now is not a distant event: it is the scream of humans that will follow us in ways we can’t know yet. What can we do? I’m praying. There’s people praying that those who can make a difference will do so.

https://podium.bulletin.com/269177711419542

“The story of Jesus is incomplete…

without me.*”

That sentence arrived an hour ago without warning. The entire story of nature revolves around man, woman, child, their environment, like the planets revolve around the sun; like birds returning to the nests, like bees go to flowers: the entire Bible is an endless Whisper to Humanity;

the aspect of Love, the person of Jesus: Emmanuel – God with us; He lived, lives for what, whom? From the first Word of the…

Unbroken. Oil.RN

**

Bible to It’s last, this is about us. What were we thinking? Every drop of water, every slant of Light, every dawn and dusk, revolves around humans: yes the Story of Jesus is incomplete without us in it: any which way you look at it, fight kick slam shut it, crucify it, hang it out to dry. Without me, His story is incomplete. And what does that say about what He is to us?

It drives home things some things I’m gagging at. There’s no little joy here, just yelling sunshine. All of everything, from the beginning to the end, wraps around His Humans. No more shying from a Presence that pushes me like I were all He lives for, no more excuses…

As my day ends here and we settle in to night, no matter hell or high water,

I’m nestling in the way one sentence* arrived at me, wrapped Itself around my core and breaths now with a dimension all Its own.

Who am I, again?

No more excuses. FMF Writers.

@ Sea with B.Harry

Thankyou Kate Motaung for triggering a revisit to my 7 year old self, in a place I loved and was terrified of: the Sea. Here I got something I’ll never let go of: how to ride a giant wave!

Word: RISK, 5 Mins.

Age 7 is a tricky sweet dangerous age to utterly trust a stranger, in a spot like that, deep sea. Those waves weren’t called Breakers for nothing. But Bro. Harrison (name unchanged*) was the kind of human any family would trust.

This was the Bay of Bengal, summer. He was an Australian lumbering red raw sunburnt priest on vacation from a Boys’ school in Darjeeling; he was dear and kind and sweet. Would take endless pictures of us, and himself, all black and white. He’d send us statutes and post cards from Italy and wherever he went. Summers were in our little coastal tourist village; he loved Indian fish fries, and Dad’s laughter in our veranda overlooking the sea. Then he’d hoist me over his shoulder to the beach. Ofcourse I trusted him, and he proved his worth in sand and mid sea, even with a six footer wave crest crackly overhead, spiffing white crystal fire in the gold sun.

I was afraid;

the Sea was a scary beautiful friend. She’d sweep out her large green blue skirts at my toes then swing them back in to herself, tempting me to go in deeper. I’d run in for shells, then fly back out again at another wave that chased me right to the edge of our hard flat beach, up the massive sand bund to where our compound wall overlooked a panoramic 180 degrees of this terrific watery Friend.

Brother H. as we called him, (he refused to be called uncle, flouting all nice Indian courtesy to senior relative), said it made him feel older than his 50, and that he was a child inside. He was. He was also a sort of Angel, no trace of guile or meanness, only the joy of living life to the full.

Come on, old lady!” He’d yell over our mulling muttering crash- echoing Bay. He was a certified Life Saver, I didn’t understand that but it made me feel important, and saved somehow from the churling tide, its rush and fervor, its lunging, pulling, eddy and mega swill.

B. H. would ask me to hold on to the tube and trust him as we paddled deeper in to where waves began.

The idea was to go through that startling blue water wall before it crashed- then ride its crest all the way ashore.

It was the most somersaulty crazy thing I’ve experienced or ever will. If I’d known how to swim, it would’ve not been as dangerous. Here I had to trust Bro. H., I had to go where he said, hold tight no matter my nose and face were smashed in that coaster, no matter I was in a sand-&-water rollercoaster, ears and brain thounding (yeah, you’d get new words) with the crash of tide in maddened swell.

The sound it still startles me but not as much as the glory of re-surfacing in great gulp of air, Bro.H’s laughing grey blue eyes, his lung full of a whoop shout, as we settled in the shoulder of yet another giant wave as she rode us all the way back to shore….

where sometimes dad or ma waited, wondering that I needed this.

Years down, I’ve relived that time there, over and over. It’s one empowered way to ride a risky wave like that – in the sea, or in Life elsewhere: surprise that Thing that’s coming at us, go through It holding on to the Hand that holds you & me better than we could hold ourselves, then break free as the Breath of God kicks in Life in our frame,

ride that Wave for the sheer joy of knowing that’s why there are Waves and Oceans, Sands and Seas in the stories of our lives.

Thankyou Kate M. & Storytellers, and all of Blog world for reminding me; I’m feeling 7 years old, at sea with the Hand that holds all.

….

*years down, I searched Facebook for him, we’d shifted cities and we’d lost touch. He wasn’t the kind to stop writing or telling us where he was, but he did. I suspected the worst; and found his smiling black and white profiles in a FB page dedicated to him by people who knew him, as we did too. Bro H. was/ is one if the most magnificent human beings ever created: he taught this 7 year old to walk on high walls, chase sand crab, find sea horse, race waves, love sea boats, love life no matter where….

Why I Believe: C.S. Lewis and Me – Part One

Posted with permission from MitchTeemly’s blog ‘The Power of Story’, this is a fascinating 3 part read that tags one of my all time favourite writers C.S.Lewis and ofcourse ‘The Hound of Heaven’:

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The truth that compelled me to journey from atheism to faith

“I began to think of my longing for God as a hunger for a flavor that didn’t exist. Which seemed odd. But there was one example of such a phenomenon—and only one—in my experience…..”

Read on, and do check the movie ‘Shadowlands’, I couldn’t move while we watched this true life take on  CS Lewis(Anthony Hopkins’ best!) around the time he wrote the Chronicles of Narnia, &  ” …lifelong nostalgia,….longing to be reunited with something in the universe from which we now feel cut off, to be on the inside of some door we have always seen from the outside, is not mere neurotic fancy, but the truest index of our real situation.” (The Weight of Glory)


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