His Name Was Parichand

His name was Parichand,

The Ashram gardener.

So many came to him

Eager to work with flowers.

Parichand was a Jain,

An extraordinary face.

He spoke of Mother to all

Imparting love and grace.

But about those seekers who came,

He had them pull weeds!

An interesting way

To test sincerity.

An Australian girl once said

Her way to calm the mind

Was to bend and pull weeds,

And a famous writer wrote

That weeding unknots the mind,

Weeds, the earth's blanket

To cover barren soil

Awaiting the hand of man.

Before the first seed

Or bulb or plant is placed

The sweat-work of our hands

And backs and legs begins.

I revel in the earth

Preparing flower beds

Seeking a harmony

Of nutrients and tilth.

Again I have digressed.

Parichand was joy

Incarnate in human form.

No sorrow could sustain

Its flow, no grief remain

In his light-filled atmosphere.

Never have I left

His laughing presence dismayed.

Infectious his delight,

Communicant of bliss,

Whose offering of self

Sustained, inspired us.

Therefore he made them weed,

Native and foreigner,

Men and women all,

And if they laboured well

Under India's sun

There might be pots to fill

And later on a seed

To plant or plant to trim.

And perhaps the budding soul

In his perennial care

Might come to early bloom

As the sanctified rose.

I keep his photo near

To focus on his smile

And how the sunlit path

Is but a step away.

First published in Mother India - February 2005