WRITE TO ME AT: ivan.arthur@gmail.com
I NEED YOUR HELP.
I am stuck. Fr. Ubaldo has requested me to write a piece on Compassion. Such an easy subject. The Gospels are full of it. The Prophet Mohamed talks about it. So does the Buddha. Anybody should be able to write about it.
But I am stuck. How can I write about it when I am what I am?
On the way to Yaari Road, I see a man whose limbs are twisted like the branches of a vine. He drags himself on the muddy asphalt, dodging cars and buses to stretch out his crooked hand for a coin. I click my tongue in pity. My eyes get moist. I drop a coin. Then I go home and put on some music. You call that compassion? What has happened to me? Tell me.
Write to me at: ivan.arthur@gmail.com
****
I wasn’t always like that. I promise. When I was five years old, I remember seeing a man lying in the gutter. We lived in Bandra then. As a child, I felt terrible to see him there. I went down to him and asked him. “Are you drunk?” And he said, “I’m starving.” I ran home and asked mother for a glass of milk and some puranpoli. He ate, drank. Then he fished out of his bag beautiful sketches that he had done. He was an artist. Looking for a job. I was glad I helped him.
But today? What has happened to me?
Sorry, Fr. Ubaldo. I cannot preach what I do not practice. Something has happened to me Tell me what to do.
Write to me at: ivan.arthur@gmail.com
****
It wasn’t always like that. I promise.
I remember January 2002. I was walking home from work. Lakshmi Building. Sir P.M. Road. Heavy traffic. My eyes caught the sight of a young man. Lying in the middle of the street. Totally naked waist down. Cars swerved to avoid running over him. I ran to where he was. Tried dragging him to the pavement where he would be safe. He screamed at me in anger. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Get away. Let me lie here.” I told him he could be run over. “You’re a fool,” he said to me. “The police will arrest me.and take me to jail. There I will get shelter and food. Go away, you idiot” So I went away. I didn’t put on any music that day.
You call that compassion? What has happened to me? Tell me.
So then, you can see: I am making excuses: the city has made us like that. All those crafted beggars have eroded our compassion. Right? Write to me and tell me that I am wrong.
What would Jesus do in my place? But don’t you see, Ivan Arthur. That was Jesus you saw on the way to Yaari Road and on P. M. Road. And I ask, “Was it?”
You tell me. Write to me at ivan.arthur@gmail.com
****
O forget those street scenes.
What about my neighbour who is bringing up her son alone?
Or that old, lonely widower with no one to talk to? (Oh,but then he is at the other end of town.)
Or Mrs. D. Cooped up in the house because she cannot walk?
Or ... Please don’t remind me of all that.
Please do not tell me that Compassion is nothing if it does not end in action. If it does not make me get up and do something.
Write to me at ivan.arthur@gmail.com
Maybe then, Fr. Ubaldo will be able to print your sermon to me. Thank you.
Published in Fr. Agnel's magazine, October 2015
I NEED YOUR HELP.
I am stuck. Fr. Ubaldo has requested me to write a piece on Compassion. Such an easy subject. The Gospels are full of it. The Prophet Mohamed talks about it. So does the Buddha. Anybody should be able to write about it.
But I am stuck. How can I write about it when I am what I am?
On the way to Yaari Road, I see a man whose limbs are twisted like the branches of a vine. He drags himself on the muddy asphalt, dodging cars and buses to stretch out his crooked hand for a coin. I click my tongue in pity. My eyes get moist. I drop a coin. Then I go home and put on some music. You call that compassion? What has happened to me? Tell me.
Write to me at: ivan.arthur@gmail.com
****
I wasn’t always like that. I promise. When I was five years old, I remember seeing a man lying in the gutter. We lived in Bandra then. As a child, I felt terrible to see him there. I went down to him and asked him. “Are you drunk?” And he said, “I’m starving.” I ran home and asked mother for a glass of milk and some puranpoli. He ate, drank. Then he fished out of his bag beautiful sketches that he had done. He was an artist. Looking for a job. I was glad I helped him.
But today? What has happened to me?
Sorry, Fr. Ubaldo. I cannot preach what I do not practice. Something has happened to me Tell me what to do.
Write to me at: ivan.arthur@gmail.com
****
It wasn’t always like that. I promise.
I remember January 2002. I was walking home from work. Lakshmi Building. Sir P.M. Road. Heavy traffic. My eyes caught the sight of a young man. Lying in the middle of the street. Totally naked waist down. Cars swerved to avoid running over him. I ran to where he was. Tried dragging him to the pavement where he would be safe. He screamed at me in anger. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Get away. Let me lie here.” I told him he could be run over. “You’re a fool,” he said to me. “The police will arrest me.and take me to jail. There I will get shelter and food. Go away, you idiot” So I went away. I didn’t put on any music that day.
You call that compassion? What has happened to me? Tell me.
So then, you can see: I am making excuses: the city has made us like that. All those crafted beggars have eroded our compassion. Right? Write to me and tell me that I am wrong.
What would Jesus do in my place? But don’t you see, Ivan Arthur. That was Jesus you saw on the way to Yaari Road and on P. M. Road. And I ask, “Was it?”
You tell me. Write to me at ivan.arthur@gmail.com
****
O forget those street scenes.
What about my neighbour who is bringing up her son alone?
Or that old, lonely widower with no one to talk to? (Oh,but then he is at the other end of town.)
Or Mrs. D. Cooped up in the house because she cannot walk?
Or ... Please don’t remind me of all that.
Please do not tell me that Compassion is nothing if it does not end in action. If it does not make me get up and do something.
Write to me at ivan.arthur@gmail.com
Maybe then, Fr. Ubaldo will be able to print your sermon to me. Thank you.
Published in Fr. Agnel's magazine, October 2015