There are three things offered to us as free gifts
by Matheus Yuhlung
By this time of the year, winter is usually gone, but this year it seems to have lost its way, or is too enamoured by what I don’t know about this land, that it has been lingering still. Delhi has never been like this in the recent years, nature knows it too. And so it seems, it has been raining as so it does always to lie the old season at its grave and to raise another that was previously laid to rest. But that which used to obey with one occasion of heavenly shower refuses to adhere to nature’s call this time and so, it has been raining relentlessly since the past few days to push forth the seasonal schedule; but all has been in vain.
This evening as I peeked out of my window as the rain had begun to withhold its aggression, a grumpy orange sky greeted back. The sun had yet to sink into the bosom of its nightly abode; it hid behind the clouds like a dancer behind a sheet-screen, enchanting its audience with a play of mysterious silhouettes. Hence so, the sky looked like a huge coffee stain on a pretty white bed sheet.
And down here, I stand at the window of this approximately or more than fifty year old colonial flat that the Brits had build when they use to rule this land; I thought of the souls that might have stood here as me and wondered if they had the opportunity to ever look at the sky as it is now.
But as I lowered by eyes, I was soon convinced that they wouldn’t have at least seen a view that was in front of me, a concrete jungle. The alleys turned into suburban brooks that gushed out water into the busy streets as people, cows, dogs, cycles, rickshaws and sedans try to keep themselves in a motion forward.
I raised my eyes a little higher and kept them affix at the horizon, trying my best to picture Rumi’s garden of bliss that supposedly lie between two extremes; I figured the sky and the surface were good enough to be considered as extremes.
But the equilibrium seemed to lie beyond reach. Yet, I discovered something startling. Nature’s convulsive conjunction of seasonal abyss looked like a perfect portrayal of the emotional tumult in my heart. But, can my emotions have a concomitant effect on the weather? I asked. No! It is rather the stupid weather that is making me moody, I reasoned, I blamed. It has to be the stupid weather.
I didn’t sleep last night – it rained, I didn’t sleep the night before – it rained, and the night before that one and the night before that – that night again and the night before as well; I don’t remember really. But I haven’t slept.
Sleep has successfully eluded me. It’s like a talk show in my head, every time I hit the bed. They just won’t shut up; a debate of ideas; vague, not worth pursuing and lust and regret and what ifs and perhaps.
I went back to my desk – to the heap of books, papers and approaching deadlines. But my mind won’t go back to work.
I walk up to my shelf – to more books and I run my fingers over the spines of them. The fragile old ones shy back while the bold hardcovers that had supposedly stood the test of time stood like erected pieces of sarcophagus rocks that housed dead ideas within.
My eyes and not my fingers felt upon this small booklet, titled How I came to know my Saviour by Bro. Bakht Singh. I flipped it open at a random pace; but fate it seemed had other plans; the motion stopped at a page where I had once underlined these words. And it read:
There are three things offered to us as free gifts, on account of our accepting the Lord Jesus Christ as our personal Saviour. Firstly, victory over the world. “For whatsoever is born of God over cometh the world: and this is the victory that over cometh the world even our faith.” (1 John 5:4). Secondly, victory over sin. “We know that whosoever is born of God sinneth not; but he that is begotten of God keepeth himself and that wicked one toucheth him not” (1 John 5:18). Thirdly, we are given victory over death. “The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is law. But thanks be to God which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Cor. 15:56,57).
I had then realized, I was wasting my breath on petty little grieves. Instead, I should have invested this breath, every single breath in giving thanks to the one through whose grace my heart is still beating, through whose grace I’m still breathing.
Picture Credit: None.
The first picture is a photo I took with my phone sometime back last year. It has no relation with this post but I added it because it sort a captured the same sentiments. The second picture is a scanned copy of the pages from the book I quoted above.