The sky is the limit. Photo by Raghu Rai taken in Haryana in 1969.
Divine teaching transcends time and comes to us in whispers. In one of the ancient Upanishads, there is a conversation between sage Uddalaka and his knowledge-thirsty son, Swetaketu:
The sage: Very well, my son. Go and pick a fig from the Banyan tree, split it open and tell me what you see inside?
Son: Many tiny seeds, sir.
The sage: Take one of them and split it open and tell me what you see inside?
Son: Nothing at all, sir.
The sage: The subtlest essence of the fig appears to you as nothing, but, believe me, my son, from that very nothing this mighty banyan tree has arisen. That being, which is the subtlest essence of everything, is the supreme reality, the Self, the self of all that exists.
It reminds me of my early years, of the seeds my elders sowed in me. Some germinated into my love for music, some, into poetry, and countless others, into nature. Together, as they still sprout and grow quietly, they form my essence, as a large tree.
With the monsoon clouds, the breeze changes into storm, the tree spills and sways out of me. What remains as “me” is a stem traversing this tempest of celestial passion.
In hot and dry summers, I am no longer a stem, but a teardrop of rain. I long for dense clouds to fill up my skies. As they roll, I am the very first drop of pre-monsoon, a child of inky-black clouds. My earth is dry and parched, my trees can’t walk to the water. I need to deliver them there.
When I plant a maple or gulmohar sapling, I want to enter the stems, move inside the branches and through the tender leaves. I want to rise, overnight, into a tree. At least, that’s how my dreams keep growing, because the soil is moist with feelings, tender and poignant, with possibilities for the seed to sprout into a tree.
Only when I tear through predictability, bring forth the tender and truthful the pure and perfect in me, is the tree born.
Watching me be the maali on our farmland near Gurugram-Faridabad expressway, my wife Meeta often remarks at my yearning — so obvious, so intense. The saplings of shrubs and trees I had picked up while travelling on photography assignments, I brought them to the farm. And, to my delight, I realised, humare farm mein poore desh ki mitti hai (that my farm has earth from all over the country). On this six acres of canvas, I have been painting with rare species — the chinar (maple tree) that I planted, which only grows in cold climates such as in Kashmir, has grown into a handsome tree.
Come spring, even the ancient banyan tree, unlike humans, transforms into a huge ball of tenderness. With its new petal-like leaves, it looks like a resplendent bride in fresh greens, with buds in shy pinks and blushing reds. Responding to these whispers is responding to the divine creator’s grace and glory.
Raghu Rai is an award-winning photographer.