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
Poems Undated (1727)
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