Aba Kababa

Experiences, anecdotes, and life observations that I feel privileged to have stumbled across over the years. Some of them happened, others I heard of, read about, or observed. Some occurred totally in my head. Whatever their source or context, I share with each of them a strong personal empathy. In many, of what I refer to as teachings and rantings, I feel a deep sense of pride in having been able to recognize, or project some clue, insight, or deeper underlying meaning.


Aba Kababa - McLeod Ganj 1978
Art by Sattva Kastel

Philosopher


Aba Kababa - Andamans 1977
Sattva Kastel

Elixir of Eternity

Aba Kababa's Dream 1977
by Sattva Kastel

Binomial

I once made friends with a couple of graduate math students. They were accompanying visiting professors, at a year-long symposium at the Trumann Research Institute. I was still a naïve first year student and they began to initiate me in some of the lore of the world of mathematics. They taught me to appreciate the mathematical mind by acknowledging its rigorous preoccupation with the link between proof and knowledge. I heard about Georg Cantor, who founded modern set theory, and Kurt Godel, who proved the incompleteness theorems. Both of them were known for being at times out of touch with reality. Recently many people have also become familiar with John Forbes Nash Junior, Nobel Prize Laureate and subject of the book and synonymous film “A Beautiful Mind”.
At the same time the circle of mad mathematicians was getting bigger, due to the young Professor Saharon Shelah. He was making a name for himself at the symposium, for driving colleagues insane by solving dilemmas they had been working on for years. Sometimes the inspiration would take minutes and often solutions occurred to him while in or on the toilet.

My new friends introduced me to other prolific mathematicians. Among them Paul Erdos who was also renowned for his ability to overhear a discussion of a problem in an unknown field of mathematics and to come back with the solution in minutes.
In his infancy his father already started teaching him about prime numbers and infinite sets. His mother on the other hand spoiled him excessively to compensate for two children previously lost to scarlet fever. Consequently Erdos independently discovered the notion of negative numbers at the age of three, but was unable to butter his own toast until he was twenty.

He later coined small children as "epsilons", wives as "bosses" and God as the "Supreme Fascist". He also remarked that a mathematician was a “machine for turning coffee into theorems”.
Many of the problems he considered were easy to state but hard to prove. He simplified and extended Chebyschev’s proof that between any two whole positive numbers N and 2N (N’s multiple by 2), a prime number can always be found. He also showed that provided N is at least 7, then between N and 2N there are always at least two primes numbers.

Without a permanent academic appointment or home, Erdos travelled the world with two small suitcases, rarely staying anywhere for longer than a couple of weeks. So immense were his discoveries, that Mathematicians all over the world classified themselves by their "Erdos number". This has a value of “1”, if they collaborated directly with Erdos. It has a value of “2”, if they collaborated with someone who collaborated with him directly (and whose own Erdos number was therefore “1”), a value of “3” if they collaborated with someone whose own Erdos number was “2”, and so on.

One day Erdos was asked by a close friend, why he did not settle down, get married and live a normal life? Being unable to obtain a sufficient explanation, the friend suggested Erdos seek professional advice. He put him in touch with a Freudian psychiatrist in the hope he would help Erdos find the path to conjugal bliss. Erdos was open-minded and as he saw no harm in the exercise, stuck at it for a number of sessions. We know from history that he never married, but according to legend the psychiatrist got divorced a few weeks later.

Once upon a time three professors went on holiday together to a faraway island, in the middle of the ocean. The first one was a Statistician, the second an Engineer, and the third a Mathematician. After their plane had landed they took a taxi from the airport to their hotel. On the way they observed the passing scenery, distant hills and wild vegetation, and generally enjoyed the overall beauty of nature. Suddenly they noticed something in a field not very far away. There were three animals that looked exactly like cows, except that curiously they were pink and had bright green spots. The Statistician immediately said, "In this country all the cows are pink with bright green spots”. "No," the Engineer responded, "in this country, we have just seen three cows that are pink with bright green spots". ”No, no," said the Mathematician, "in this country, we have just seen three cows, each of which has at least one side that is pink with bright green spots".

Flying over the Atlantic - a letter by Anna Heilman - May 12th 1993

Dear Eli and the Gang,
On Wednesday April 28th 1993 I received a long distance call from Toronto. The man identified himself as Eli Rubinstein, of the Jewish ... (the rest was lost in a quick staccato.
He continued to state, "I know that you will say no, but on Wednesday May 5th 1993, I am leading a group of university students from 9 different points in Canada (on a mission to Poland). This is the first university students group of its kind and they have expressed a wish to have a Survivor come with them". I had been recommended to him by Bernie Farber, the Executive Director of the Public Relations Department, Canadian Jewish Congress,Toronto, Canada (if I got the title wrong, please forgive me and correct it).
Bernie and I go a long way back. Active in Jewish community Centre in Ottawa, contemporary of my daughters, a son of a survivor, then a worker in Children's Aid Society in Ottawa, Bernie was active in the Workers Union and I represented management. We weren't exactly on the same side, all the same we had a great deal of respect for each other. Berne went on to better and bigger things, I retired.
In 1984 I had visitors in Ottawa. Marta Ciege from Brussels, Belgium, and her son Sam came to visit. Marta's expressed reason for the visit was to light fire under me. Marta had saved my life on numerous occasions both during the execution of my sister Ester in Auschwitz on January 5 1945, and her three unfortunate collaborators, for their acts of sabotage in Auschwitz, and soon after on January 18 1945, when the Germans decided to evacuate Auschwitz, and took us on the infamous death march, I was out of my mind, refused to budge, and Marta dragged me bodily.
Marta, an avid reader, came to me personally to demand justice. She said that a lot has been written here and there about smuggling of gunpowder from Union, but the stories are incomplete and sometimes distorted, because those that wrote knew about the hanging, but did not know the names of the girls involved, other than Roza Robota, or their roles leading to this event.
I owe Marta my life so I had to obey. Rationally I knew that she was right, emotionally I was angry and resentful that the past is catching up with me.
The appearance immediately after the war of a larger quantity of instant heroes who fought in the Warsaw Ghetto, than the actual fighters in the ghetto, stupefied me, enraged me and catapulted me into 40 years of silence.
40 years later at Marta's insistance, and at the inspiring example of a small group of "Union" survivors, who undertook and carried through, against enormous bureaucratic obstacles, the erection of a monument honouring our Four Heroines, in the Memorial Garden of Yad Vashem in Jerusalem for posterity. I became more vocal and more active, part of me still resenting the meotional burden and the amount of work, time and expense it involved still, the sense of responsibility and duty prevailed.

Asshole

What can you see when your head comes out of your ass? Try clicking the banana ....






Look and Listen

Background
There is a saying “The shy one shalt not learn”. In my student years this statement was bandied about generously by calculating university professors, who openly encouraged question-asking, while secretly looking for naïve students to subject to public humiliation!

For example in the classic approach to teaching maths, every step of a theorem is first written on the blackboard in rigorous detail and then meticulously copied by every student simultaneously. In Advanced Infinitesimal Calculus, the proof of one of the Bolzano-Weierstass Theorems was expounded over three weeks of lecturing by Professor Saharon Shelah. Due to its length and complexity, apart from occasional explanations the only other sound came from the squeaking of chalk, in the unfolding of lemmas and propositions. In truth most of the students were lost in the first few minutes of the opening lecture, and even the brightest of us had given up by the end of the first half hour. However Rafi Heiman[1], a truly exceptional student, frustrated at having lost track of the proof, finally decided to interrupt our venerable professor with a question. Most of us could not even grasp the subject, but we were glad for a moment of respite in the tireless duet of symbols and chalk. The professor stalled, scowled at Rafi pointing out that the material relevant to his question had not only been explained but also erased two weeks before. He then asked why on earth had Rafi waited so long to ask his question?
One of those interminable silences followed while Rafi and the professor locked gazes. Eventually Rafi dropped his head in defeat. The reality was that in spite of the saying, you had to be extremely courageous to ask a question in a maths lecture.
One distinguished exception to this adage was Professor Aumann[2], with whom I was keen to study because he taught in English. It has been remarked that a mathematician is a “machine for turning coffee into theorems” and true to form Professor Aumann would show up at lectures holding a small glass of “BOTZ” (literally mud), fresh coffee that is stirred in as if it were instant.

The Story
In his opening lecture on Set Theory at the outset of the Spring Term of 1982, Professor Aumann started out by saying we were not required to copy any of the proofs demonstrated during his lectures. This was a complete break from the classic approach. Professor Aumann went even further by telling us that we did not have to take any notes whatsoever at his lectures, we simply needed “to look and to listen”. He assured us that if we did just that we would sail through his class easily.

Seeing our bewilderment Professor Aumann amicably decided to illustrate his message with a story. He told us of another professor who was initiating another group of students on their very first day in the faculty of medicine. He too told them they simply needed to “look and listen”. However in their case one more thing was required to become a doctor: and this was the “courage” to behold blood and organs and so forth. He picked up a glass beaker containing a brown substance and told the students it was human excrement. Professor Aumann illustrated using his own almost empty glass of “BOTZ”. Holding up the glass of excrement the professor of medicine looked round his audience, (as did Aumann), saying that if they wanted to be doctors, they would have to be courageous enough to dip a finger into the glass, place their finger in their mouth and suck it. The professor, again illustrated by Aumann, immediately did so himself. Nausea and disgust swept across the room, as the professor of medicine looked around for a guinea-pig. His eyes called on a girl in the second row, “Do you want to be a doctor?” he smiled, “ugh yes …” she replied and went up front nervously.

“Do you want to be a doctor?” the professor repeated politely, again the girl nodded. “Then show me you have the courage”, and he held out the glass beaker. The poor girl dipped her trembling index finger into the substance, and gagging placed the same finger into her mouth.
“Thank-you,” said the professor, “you, my dear, are a most courageous person, but I fear you may not become a doctor.” The girl looked back bewildered as he continued, “Because you did not follow my instructions. I said that you must look and listen. You listened well. However you did not look closely enough, for while I put my index finger into the beaker, I put my middle finger into my mouth.”
“And so”, said Professor Aumann, “you people are lucky - all you have to do here is to look and listen – but remember it isn’t always as easy as it sounds”.

Conclusion
No one asked but everyone hoped the girl had learned her lesson, and that so had we. Professor Aumann turned out to be one of those rare teachers capable of both inspiring and caring.
Later that year Professor Aumann’s son, a reserve officer, was called up and tragically killed in action, in South Lebanon. The Professor’s eyes dimmed, and from then on only rarely did a sparkle surface. He grew a very long beard, and was often seen wondering around the campus, in a world of his own. More than twenty years later he was recognized with a Nobel Prize for his mathematical contributions in the field of economics.


[1] I looked up Rafi and found his Ph.D. Dissertation "Randomized Decision Tree Complexity For Read-Once Boolean Functions".
[2] An internationally known researcher in the area of game theory, Robert J. Aumann is a professor emeritus in the Institute of Mathematics at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and a member of the University's Centre for the Study of Rationality.

Gathering of the Sadhus

Pierre, 18, finishes his final school exams, and gets a job selling paintings from door to door. When he has saved up enough money he packs up and disappears off to India.
Pierre's father who is a doctor, is invited to attend a medical convention in Afghanistan. He has not heard from his son for nearly a year, so being in that part of the world, he thinks he might be able to take advantage of the opportunity to try and find out what has happened to Pierre.
The Indian Embassy in Kabul tell him that many wondering travellers spend time roaming about India without money or papers, and that very little can be done to trace them. However at this time of the year the travellers tend to congregate in Goa. Pierre had written to his parents from Goa, against his own better judgement, and with only Pierre's last forwarding addresses to go on, he takes a flight from Kabul to Bombay.
From Bombay he makes his way to Goa to look for his son. He is advised that many foreigners live in small huts in the forests that line the beaches. He goes to a market near the beach and asks around with a photo, if anyone might have seen his son. With the large number of people milling about in the heat, the atmosphere is very intense. He keeps seeing people whom he mistakes for Pierre.. Only to be let down when he comes closer or when they turn around. He gets abused and laughed at until he cannot stand it anymore; exhausted he starts to get away, when again he thinks he sees his son. He loses sight of him then catches another glimpse and in searching he is lead away from the scene. He gets lost in a forest and has to stop to rest and compose himself. Then on the way back he stumbles upon the person he was following, who turns out to be an addict in the throws of with­drawal symptoms. The father saves him from killing himself and becomes very involved in taking care of him. After a few days the young man is back on his feet again and while the father is out getting some food he runs away, steeling some money. Having been deprived of his parental role again, the father is very upset.

In the next days he fails to get a trace of his son so he leaves Goa and goes to Hampi, in central India. Pierre had written a few letters from this place and it had obviously impressed him greatly. Hampi is an archaeological site that hasn't changed during hundreds of years. There is a river running through the ruins of ancient temples, and the whole area is bordered by hills dotted with caves. The only people living there are a few ascetic hermits and monks.
Father meets Gopal Shiva, an accomplished yogi, who has shunned fame and public recognition, to lead a peaceful life here. Father learns that Pierre had spent time studying with Gopal Shiva, but had left over a year ago and hadn't been heard of since; moreover he is discouraged from pursuing his search. He decides to visit some of the places Pierre had written about in his letters ‑ hidden temples, caverns, ruins with intricate sculptures. Finding the spot by the river where Pierre used to wash and go swimming in the mornings, father tries to visualise him there, which gives him a very warm and enchanting feeling. Waking from his day dream he again realises he is alone and a cold shiver runs up his spine.
Next the father goes to a small village near Madras from where Pierre had last sent a postcard of a sculpture with a peculiar message inscribed on the other side, “going to see an ice erection” love Pierre. The sculpture is carved on a large rock face of a temple hollowed out of solid rock. It depicts Vishnu (a Hindu deity) being protected from some angry demonic creatures by four winged babies. While puzzling over the sculpture hoping it might reveal the key to his son's whereabouts, father notices seated in the temple a monk whose eye happens to be badly inflamed. He is attracted toward the monk and decides to treat his wound. The monk whose gratitude transcends the barrier of languages, gives to the father a gift of some small bits of stone, while voicing the sound am..rr..na.. He gestures to the father to repeat the sounds who unsus­pectingly does so.
Back in Madras, father writes his wife that he is on his way home. He tells her he is frightened to stray too much further, for he is getting a fixation that even if he does find the right place he might be looking in the wrong direction as he passes their son on the street, and it is becoming too much of a strain peering into every face that passes him by. He takes a plane to Delhi and awaits his flight back home. Sitting in his hotel lobby he ponders over the postcard. An Indian fellow is seated opposite holding up an English newspaper.
The father puts his hand in his pocket and as he touches the pieces of stone the monk had given him, he notices on the back page, an article about a place called Amarnath, which gives him a clue to the Ice Erection. He has an impulse to go there but is held back by the memory of his impulsiveness in Goa. The man whose paper it is notices the father's anxiety and introduces himself as a doctor of herbal medicine. The father inquires about the Amarnath and the doctor recounts him a legend that inspires him to make the journey. In his excitement he writes to his wife that he is going to see an Ice Erection.
He flies to Kashmir from where he takes a bus, and then he hires a horse and guide. Amarnath turns out to be a cave where Shiva, another one of the Hindu deities, was born and lives in the form of an ice stalactite that grows and shrinks with the waxing and waning of the moon. The people who undertake the journey, which involves climbing to a height of 15,000 feet, do so as a pilgrimage to the sacred cave hidden high up in the Himalayas. Some go by horse, others by foot, others porters carry in sedan‑chairs, and yet others go barefoot. This constitutes a hierarchy of pilgrims, those enduring the most difficulty being the most respected. On the way the atmosphere is very solemn with pilgrims repeating the prayer OM to the name of Shiva, under their breaths. Conversation is a distraction – a waste of energy. The father encounters various people during the six nights spent in the shelters on the way. One man tells him that chanting helps tolerate the cold at night, and the father is surprised to find that it works. Others tell strange stories about their journeys and experiences particularly of a spiritual nature. When he finally arrives at the cave there is nothing to suggest where his son might be. Unlike all the other pilgrims who all exalt in excitement at the sight of the cave, the father feels nothing except emptiness.
On the return journey, he reflects that he is very tired, the search is coming to an end and now sadness permeates his body. A lot has happened but now it is time to go home, back to the reality of his own life, hard work and responsibility. All this adventure in India has been so light, so easy to carry, but now he remembers the burden of existence: it is time to stop being a wondering traveller.
The pilgrims are ready to part with their dearest possessions in order to reach their goal. Ever since he took his first step in search of his son, he too has been on a pilgrimage ‑ and at the climax of the real pilgrimage, he found out that he was not looking for his son, he was looking for himself.

Sadasiv Yogi

Sadasiv left his home in Bangalore in 1953, to find his own path to enlightenment. He lived for almost 20 years in the hills surrounding Hampi, avoiding all contact with people, living on leaves and roots, while contemplating the meaning of the universe. He became knowledgeable in herbal medicine, in particular developing an antidote to the fatal bite of the infamous cobra snake. Cobras are fairly common in the area, and his antidote is known to have saved numerous people when he was called upon at times of need. Eventually the Mayor of Hampi persuaded Sadasiv to come out of isolation. They built him a small thatched cottage just outside the village, at a spot next to a temple ruin, overlooking the river and he became a spiritual leader to the people of Hampi. Sadasiv had knowledge of tele-kinesis, and he was able to materialise "ash" at will at his finger tips. He kept ash stored in a large tin inside his cottage. He used to say this ability proved nothing, yet visitors always asked to see him materalise the ash as a sign of his miraculous powers. He became a good friend of the local doctor in nearby Hospet, and they used to laugh at how a spoonful of magic helped their medicine go down.

Aba Kababa (when he was known by the name of Habib) came across Sadasiv, in Hampi, in 1975. They became friends and Sadasiv introduced Habib to the path of kings - Raja Yoga. The way he explained it, was that royalty was lazy, so they had their own fast track to enlightenment via the intellect. This approach suited Habib, as he still thought of himself as an intellectual. According to Sadasiv, you just sit in the lotus position, and join your incoming and outgoing breaths into a single ongoing breath, like waves on a shore, endlessly flowing back and forth. At the same time you focus in the middle of your forehead, and think of nothing except your breath. All else, including physical and mental health, falls into place, until eventually enlightenment is obtained.

The Apple

After reaching enlightenment, it was the Buddha’s practice to rely on peoples’ generosity for his survival, having no worldly possessions of his own.
One day while wondering through a town he stopped at the gate of a large house that belonged to a wealthy merchant. The merchant came to the gate (in my mind’s eye the Buddha pressed the button on the intercom system, which a wealthy merchant would surely have had installed at the entrance to his mansion) to see who was calling and the Buddha humbly lifted his begging bowl to ask for some food.
Having worked very hard for his living, the merchant was angered at the sight of this beggar at his door, more so because he was wearing the traditional attire of a holy man, and he demanded, “Why don’t you get a job and work for your supper like the rest of us?” The Buddha stood motionless quite unmoved by the merchant’s words.
Not understanding why he had not responded, the merchant reprimanded the Buddha for being a parasite living off the efforts of working people, and waved him away. The merchant got even angrier when he saw the Buddha was again unmoved. This time he warned him to get out of his sight or he would give him a thrashing to remember him by. Again the Buddha stood motionless.
The merchant continued to rebuke the Buddha until he got so angry that he took a large cane and threatened to beat him to a pulp. Still the Buddha was unmoved. The merchant raised his arm and was about to strike the Buddha when he hesitated and inquired, “I have shouted at you, I have insulted you, I have scolded you as if you were no better than a mangy dog, I am about to batter you to your death, and yet you stand there unaffected. If you do not wish to answer me, then why do you not defend yourself or at least run away? Do you not have any self-respect? Do you not have any wish to live?”
This time the Buddha calmly lifted his head and with a soft smile he answered, “If one man gives a second man an apple, and the second man does not take it, what happens to the apple?”
The merchant swiftly answered, “It remains with the first man.”
The merchant who was a deeply conscientious man realized that his rage had nothing to do with the man before him and immediately gained his own enlightenment. He then became a holy man, leaving his home and possessions behind him, and went on to become one of the Buddha’s greatest disciples.

I searched for this story on the internet, but was not able to find it. I am sure I read it when I was traveling in India. Perhaps I should ask an authority on the life of the Buddha for a reference, but in the meantime this was my version from memory.
This is probably the story I have told most frequently throughout my adult life. I often told it to my children to give them another perspective on arguing with each other and I still occasionaly use it in a variety of conflict-related situations.

The Orange

This is not a story, but a role-playing exercise I once encountered. The exercise works well as an experiential process both for observer and participant, through an emotional perspective on the intellectual memory. It could be interesting to record the exercise on video, as I am sure participants would be surprised to see their own body language reinforcing negative defence mechanisms in their counterparts. The exercise is done in a group of 10-20 people who have already met each other. Ideally it is done in a room, with two separate entrances. Two volunteers are chosen and asked to leave the room separately. The exits must be far enough apart that they will not be able to see or mix with each other while outside. The first volunteer is given the following instruction on a slip of paper:
You have just come out of a hospital where your young child has been diagnosed with a rare and fatal disease. The doctors just told you that sadly your child will not surviveanother day and there is nothing they can do about it without appropriate medicine which they do not have.

They have given you one last hope: the juice of a whole orange has the ingredient that can combat your child’s disease. The only problem is that oranges have become extremely rare, even if you can find them they are extremely expensive, and you have no money. You are distraught, with nowhere to go, no one to turn to, unable to bare the thought of your child dying.

As you stand helpless, suddenly in the road in front of you see an orange. It is a miracle. You feel an incredible surge of gratitude, as you bend forward to pick it up. But as you lean over an arm comes into your site and grasps the orange before you can get to it. The person who now has the orange in a tight grip turns and starts walking away. You feel you have again been deprived of your only hope. You must in some way persuade this person to help you save your child.


The second volunteer is given the same instruction on a slip of paper except the peel is substituted instead of the juice.
While the two volunteers are outside, the rest of the group are explained the situation and instructed to watch the ensuing behaviours without any interference.
Both volunteers enter and walk towards the centre of the room, as they approach each other a scrap of paper representing the orange is thrown on the floor in between them.

When I was volunteered for this exercise, as I saw the orange being dropped on the floor, I made very sure I was the person who picked it up, even though this was not exactly on my script.
As my counterpart implored me to let him have the orange, I admit that having obtained what I needed, as far as I was concerned the exercise was to all intents and purposes over. I merely closed my emotions off to his pleading assuming his situation was exactly the same as my own, in the belief there was no way I could fairly risk losing my own child. Needless to say when the exercise was over I was greatly embarrassed by what had been just been a fear of being weak, and thereby opening myself up the possibility of my counterpart persuading me.
I love this teaching, because it identifies a space not immediately visible, that speaks volumes of what is possible in spite of all apparent adversity. Fear, anger, conflict all work their magic, distracting the mind so that it will even deny the obvious. I think this exercise is as much about faith as it is about communication.

Purim too Short

Inspired by Shishlik at the age of 5, at a time before we all had mobile phones, a time when we used video to record our favorite TV series like “LA Law” and “Thirty Something”. It was also just after the first Gulf War, which had been marked by intermittent air-raid sirens. This was a signal to don gas masks and take refuge in rooms, sealed with sheets of plastic and masking tape, in case Saddam Hussein launched a chemical attack. Air-raid sirens are funny things, when they go off you hear them from all sides. They echo in the streets as they start up one after the other, as well as indoors on radios, and TV’s, and you can even hear them on the phone.
As it happened, during the first attack a total of 7 Scuds[1] landed without causing extensive damage. In the first days of the war when people were instructed to remain at home, Saddam had actually saved lives by keeping the roads free of the typical accident and death toll. If Saddam had managed to launch 700 or 7,000 Scuds it might have been a different story, but if all he could do was 7 on the first launch, it made many of us feel pretty safe. CNN and BBC were pretty good at spotting Scuds being launched, and during the first attack, while the sirens sounded, my mother would see a launch on TV news. She phoned in a panic from thousands of miles away to find out if we were ok? I told her to call back later as it took about 7 minutes for Scuds to reach us.

The Story
Anyway about Purim[2], being too short that is. One morning just after the Purim festival, and the war had both been officially declared over. The gas masks, plastic sheets and masking tape were returned to their usual storage places. With life, back to normal, I could hear my wife struggling to get Shishlik up for the day ahead as he was refusing to get up for nursery school. As far as I am concerned most arguments are a waste of energy. I have a theory that if one takes all the heated emotion away from an argument, and takes each person’s words to their logical conclusion, and assuming that each person was actually talking about the same subject, the result would be that they either agree with each other, or they disagree on the meaning of a word. With this in mind, I asked my wife to leave it to me.
I sat down on the edge of Shishlik’s bunk, and asked him what the problem was, whereby he snapped back from under the pillow, “Purim was too short”! I hesitated, wondering what he meant and then responded, “So what if Purim was too short”? He repeated angrily, “Purim was t-o-o short”! At this point I thought I understood, “Ahhh, I see, Purim was too short and that is the reason why you do not want to get up?” Shishlik grunted. Now at least I knew what I was working with.

I should add that Shishlik had insisted that everybody was wrong for saying the country was 51 years, as it was in fact only 49 years old. When asked where he had got his facts, he told us the previous year his nursery school teacher, Tikki, had told them it was 48 years old. One year later meant it was now 49 years, and if Tikki said it then it must be true. We were impressed with his pre-school command of arithmetic, and his understanding of the concept of years, but not so with Tikki as a reliable historian.
Anyway, getting back to Purim, I acknowledged that in Shishlik’s heart and mind Purim had been too short. He on the other hand would not accept it was just about him, and he insisted that in general Purim had been too short. I could not sway him and finally I decided to comply.
Having clearly established that Purim had been too short, I posed to Shishlik that all his friends at nursery school would have experienced the same brevity as well, yet they were going to school today. It would hardly be fair if he were the only one to stay home. At this point his expression changed, he thought for a moment, and then he agreed. I went down to the kitchen trying to hide the smirk on my face from my wife.

Conclusion
The story could have ended here, but early the following morning while everyone else was asleep, it suddenly dawned on me that my genius of a son had been absolutely right. Under normal circumstances, kids celebrate Purim for 2-3 weeks before the actual holiday. They go to nursery school dressed as clowns, cowboys, Indians, fairies, old men, and what have you. But this year due to Saddam's chemical threats, kids went to school with gas masks instead. When the Purim season started, all fancy costumes were banned, in case some false beard or nose got in the way of its bearer’s gas mask when an air raid took place.

Furthermore, the announcement of the end of the war, was on Purim itself, and for the grown-ups the focus of all the Purim parties was the end of the war, and not children in their costumes. Purim also was on a Saturday, so there was no extra holiday. So Shishlik's observation had been astute. Purim had been particularly short that year. The following morning, when it was time to wake the kids, I told Shishlik how right he was.
He in turn muttered half asleep, “Dad, what nonsense are you talking?” To this day I am amazed at Shishlik’s insight, and wonder if Tikki was right about the other matter as well, but I have yet to work that one out.

As a further afterthought try to imagine what it’s like to catch up on taped screenings of LA LAW, and suddenly in the middle of the program, an air raid siren announces the impending arrival of Scud missiles. Lots of us donned our masks and headed with our families for sealed rooms before realizing the siren was on video! 


[1] "Scuds" derive from the German V-2 rocket. The Iraqi modification Al Hussein, altered for greater range at the cost of accuracy, came to prominence during the (first) Gulf War, when a number of missiles were fired atIsrael (40) and Saudi Arabia (46). One problem was the Scud missile disintegrated as it approached the target meaning that it was difficult to know which pieces were the warhead and which were debris. The missiles were one of Iraq's most threatening offensive weapons, to Israel where there was great concern that they would be armed with chemical or biological warheads.

[2] Purim is a Jewish Holiday that commemorates the deliverance from a plot to annihilate all the Jews of the Persian Empire, who had survived Babylonian Captivity. Persia had previously conquered Babylon after they in turn had destroyed the First Temple and dispersed the Jewish people; as recorded in the Biblical Book of Ester. Purim is characterized by public recitation of the Book of Esther, giving mutual gifts of food and drink, giving charity to the poor, and a celebratory meal (Esther 9:22); other customs include drinking wine,wearing of masks and costumes, and public celebration.


Bus Journey to Hebron

Sunday morning, on the bus to Hebron, lots of soldiers apparently going back to their posts. All of them busy with themselves, no one seems to notice me, or is curious as to why I am here.
There appear to be new regulations for the buses to Hebron, “NO STANDING”. There is a lot of shoving and pushing to get on, but not enough room for everyone. Didn’t anybody realise they would need more buses if they cancelled standing, especially before and after week-ends. A father with two young children manages to squeeze through, while his wife and baby are pushed aside. A girl at the front of the bus raises her voice to get soldiers out of the way, so the mother and baby can get on board. By the time she climbs the steps, there are no seats left, and the driver tells her to get off. I stand up and offer my own seat and she can hold her baby in her arms.
In the meantime I notice, what looks like, an empty space next to a soldier towards the back of the bus. No one had said anything, no one seemed to care. I ask the soldier to move aside, but he is keeping the seat for a friend. The bus is now pulling out of Jerusalem Central Bus Station and his friend is left standing by the metal detectors, like the ones you see in an airport, but without the sense of calm and order.
STANDING passengers are officially not allowed on bullet-protected buses. The windows have Perspex shields, which only go up to head/sitting height, hence the rule. Soldiers offer to lie on the floor, but the rules have recently been enforced more strictly and drivers are afraid to get caught.

We are driving along the streets of Jerusalem, past Katamon, up to Gilo, and then South towards Bethlehem. The Perspex shields have condensation caught between them and the windows they are protecting. Between the rain outside and the condensation inside, it is impossible to see anything except for some reason through my window. Maybe it is not fully sealed so fresh air can get in and the condensation can evaporate more easily. I hope nothing else can get in more easily, and I quietly wonder what is protecting us below the Perspex and the windows.
The soldier next to me is talking on his cell phone to the friend he left behind, arranging to meet somewhere later on. I find it curious that I was able to get on the bus. Perhaps there is something in my genes, as my mother was an expert at jumping the queue for the London theatre, or maybe my travels in India helped?
As we leave Jerusalem behind and enter the open road it is pouring. Through the rain and Perspex, I make out stretches of wall alongside the road. Presumably these are to protect the traffic from easy sniping. On the radio Rafi Reshef is in conversation with Sasson Gabai who is at London Airport in the process of boarding a flight back to Israel. The night before Gabai received the award for Best Actor, alongside Helen Mirren, at the European Film Academy Awards. His picture is also on the back page of the newspapers the soldiers are reading.
As we slow down to a stop I notice the road by-passes the centre of Bethlehem and I realise I didn't pay the bus fare. I think back to my previous bus journey from Rehovot to Jerusalem, and how that driver "forgot" to give me back 50 Shekels change for my 100 shekel note. He had been happily chatting away on his cell phone, holding his hands-free mouth piece in one hand, while driving through the pouring rain. Now on the bus to Hebron when I had asked to buy a ticket, the driver had been too busy telling soldiers to get off the bus, and in the end we both "forgot".
The bus lurches forward on its over-soft suspension every time the driver hits the brakes, it is nauseating! Another stop in the middle of nowhere and the soldier next to me gets off. We appear to be in a settlement, with double barbed wire fences all around, presumably for dog patrols. At another stop I see a sign saying Ramat Mamreh - Mount Taking Off (as in a plane) - hill top settlement.
The driver forgets to close the back door, and as he pulls away the soldiers shout to him. No one is bothered. Another stop, more soldiers get out, this time we are at the entrance to a large army base. More barbed wire and only Givati and Mishmar haGvul left on the bus, you can tell by their shoulder tags and berets.
I am now sitting in a coffee shop/pizzeria at the entrance to Kiryat Arba. The radio is on at full volume. I order a coffee. The proprietor has a very long beard and a large knitted skullcap. He steams up the milk, pours it in a mug, and then spoons coffee powder on the milky froth. I sit there, stirring in the coffee. There is nothing much to do, apart from being there. So I try experiencing the space, staying, waiting for something to fill it!
Before coming here I had walked along a colonnade that led to the grave of Baruch Goldstein. It is a singular tomb, in its place of solitude, overseeing Hebron.
I ask the proprietor if there is anything to do around here and he turns down the volume on the radio. He seems to think I refer to other kinds of pastime than what he is used to.
So what do you do in the evenings, cinema, theatre, music? We like to sit together in groups discussing the bible, reinforcing our convictions. This is the best entertainment.
And what sort of music do you like? You do like music? Oh yes all kinds, classical, modern, folk, all kinds of music, with a big smile. We talk about recent concerts, radio channels, chanting, and rock music. He is pleased when friendly outside visitors come here. No one comes here without a reason. Supporters come to visit family and friends, a few come to pray for divine intervention, occasionaly they come to protest, but most people are to scared too bother. But while you are here you must go to the cave of the patriarchs. I ask if it is safe?
Yes, no problem, just go outside hold out your hand and wait for a ride into Hebron, you can even walk if you like. I stand by the road, and eventually hitch a ride into Hebron.
About 10 minutes winding through some very steep lanes, between stone block buildings I am dropped off outside a heavily guarded Mosque.
I go inside, through metal detectors, passing disinterested guards. It is quite empty. I go up the stairway into the ancient buildings. I wonder around and notice gated enclaves with small signs hung obtusely outside.
Inside each enclave there is a massive tomb covered in silks and velvet. The signs in Hebrew, say Sign of the Tomb of …
It is an unfamiliar experience with a few people praying here and there. Chairs, tables, and various Hebrew volumes are strewn around, having been taken from massive bookshelves.
I do not know what to do so I decide to do nothing. I try to feel the space and to get myself present. I browse through Solomon’s “Song of Songs”. I look for David’s psalms thinking of the Lord is My Shepherd, but I cannot find it.
I am confused. I feel overwhelmed. I am not sure what to ask for so I sit down in a quiet corner to take stock. I am in a room, it is a prayer room, and there are tombs all around me. Eventually it dawns on me that this is where it all began from.
Abraham, Isaac and Jacob are buried here, they are the fathers of the Jewish faith and people. This is the claim to the right to be here and the settlers and religious Zionists hold a beacon out at the rightmost flank of that claim. I try to open myself to empathise with their devotion. Something has enabled the Jewish nation/faith to survive without a permanent homeland for over 5000 years. A period which my intellect reminds me is longer than any other homeless nation.
I start to think that letting go of this place means letting go of past and future heritage into an ever-present intermingling and absorption. Later on I think to myself that the place to keep this spirit and historic connection alive, without intruding on neighbours, is called PEACE.
My intellect tells me this whole attachment to icons, to tombs, and to holy venues is totally primitive. In fact religious belief itself is quite PRIMORDIAL.
Birds flutter around and I am reminded of the discussion about the secret of immortality. Siva and Sita sit together, in Amarnath high up in the Kashmir Mountains, on a dark night, with pigeons cooing in the roof of their cave. Sita falls sleeps, while Siva is egged on by the cooing birds. When he finds out what has happened, he strikes the birds with a bolt of lightening. They of course survive it as they now know the secret of immortality.

Looking back on this journey, I hope that bringing people here will open hearts to its significance and knowledge that it will not be forgotten. And I hope we can create the time and space, to relate to each other in other ways about other important things like friendship and music.

Screen Test

Dicky Rowntree a well-liked actor in the 60's went through a difficult divorce. They say it takes time to get over these things, and he had had his share, alone and depressed for the last few months. Unfortunately his wallet had taken a beating along with his self-confidence and eventually he really needed to get back to work. Eventually he plucked up enough courage to visit his agent. They looked at various possibilities and decided to go after the role of Robin Hood, at a prominent West End Christmas pantomime. The only hitch was that the profile required applicants to be at least 6ft tall. Dicky knew he could handle the job but he was only 5ft 5ins. “Don’t worry,” said his agent, “we’ll get you a pair of those extra high-heeled platform shoes, for the audition!” A few days later, Dicky stumbles into the theatre, wobbling on top of four inch platforms. He keeps tripping over, and almost breaks his neck while stumbling up the stage stairs for the audition.

Everything actually goes extremely well, with both director and producer liking what they see. The only one thing the director is concerned about is Dicky's height. “Don’t worry,” says the producer, “we’ll get him a pair of those extra high-heeled platform shoes!”

It’s all well and good stretching yourself, where you can be stretched, but if you go too far, you could end up running around like a headless chicken!

Chiune Sugihara

Who was Chiune Sugihara and why did he risk his and his family's future to issue visas to Jewish refugees in Lithuania?

Chiune (Sempo) Sugihara always did things his own way. He was born on January 1, 1900. He graduated from high school with top marks and his father insisted that he become a doctor. But Chiune's dream was to study literature and live abroad. Sugihara attended Tokyo's prestigious Waseda University to study English. He paid for his own education with part-time work as a longshoreman and tutor.
One day he saw an item in the classified ads. The Foreign Ministry was seeking people who wished to study abroad and might be interested in a diplomatic career. He passed the difficult entrance exam and was sent to the Japanese language institute in Harbin, China. He studied Russian and graduated with honors. He also converted to Greek Orthodox Christianity. While in Harbin he met and married a Caucasian woman. They were later divorced. The cosmopolitan nature of Harbin, China opened his eyes to how diverse and interesting the world was.
He then served with the Japanese controlled government in Manchuria, in North Eastern China. He was later promoted to Vice Minister of the Foreign Affairs Department. He was soon in line to be the Minister of Foreign Affairs in Manchuria.
While in Manchuria he negotiated the purchase of the Russian-owned Manchurian railroad system by the Japanese. This saved the Japanese government millions of dollars, and infuriated the Russians.
Sugihara was disturbed by his government's policy and the cruel treatment of the Chinese by the Japanese government. He resigned his post in protest in 1934.
In 1938 Sugihara was posted to the Japanese diplomatic office in Helsinki, Finland. With World War II looming on the horizon, the Japanese government sent Sugihara to Lithuania to open a one-man consulate in 1939. There he would report on Soviet and German war plans. Six months later, war broke out and the Soviet Union annexed Lithuania. The Soviets ordered all consulates to be closed. It was in this context that Sugihara was confronted with the requests of thousands of Polish Jews fleeing German-occupied Poland.

Sugihara's personal history and temperament may contain the key to why he defied his government's orders and issued the visas. Sugihara favored his mother's personality. He thought of himself as kind and nurturing and artistic. He was interested in foreign ideas, religion, philosophy and language. He wanted to travel the world and see everything there was, and experience the world. He had a strong sense of the value of all human life. His language skills show that he was always interested in learning more about other peoples.
Sugihara was a humble and understated man He was self-sacrificing, self-effacing and had a very good sense of humor. Yukiko, his wife, said he found it very difficult to discipline the children when they misbehaved. He never lost his temper.
Sugihara was also raised in the strict Japanese code of ethics of a turn-of-the century samurai family. The cardinal virtues of this society were oya koko (love of the family), kodomo no tamane (for the sake of the children), having gidi and on (duty and responsibility, or obligation to repay a debt), gaman (withholding of emotions on the surface), gambate (internal strength and resourcefulness), and haji no kakate (don't bring shame on the family). These virtues were strongly inculcated by Chiune's middle-class rural samurai family.
It took enormous courage for Sugihara to defy the order of his father to become a doctor, and instead follow his own academic path. It took courage to leave Japan and study overseas. It took a very modern liberal Japanese man to marry a Caucasian woman and convert to Christianity. It took even more courage to openly oppose the Japanese military policies of expansion in the 1930s.
Thus Sugihara was no ordinary Japanese man and may have been no ordinary man. At the time that he and his wife Yukiko thought of the plight of the Jewish refugees, he was haunted by the words of an old samurai maxim: "Even a hunter cannot kill a bird which flies to him for refuge."
Forty-five years after he signed the visas, Chiune was asked why he did it. He liked to give two reasons: "They were human beings and they needed help," he said. "I'm glad I found the strength to make the decision to give it to them." Sugihara was a religious man and believed in a universal god of all people.

Time was running out as Hitler tightened the net around Eastern Europe. Jewish refugees in Lithuania came upon an idea which they presented to Sugihara. They discovered that the two Dutch colonial islands, Curacao and Surinam, situated in the Caribbean, did not require formal entrance visas, and the Dutch consul informed them that he would be willing to stamp their passports with a Dutch visa to that destination. Furthermore, the Dutch consul had received permission from his superior in Riga to issue such visas and he was willing to issue these visas to anyone who was willing to pay a fee.
To get to these two islands, one needed to pass through the Soviet Union. The Soviet consul, who was sympathetic to the plight of the refugees, agreed to let them pass on one condition: that in addition to the Dutch visa, they would also obtain a transit visa from the Japanese as they would have to pass through Japan on their way to Curacao or Surinam.
Sugihara had a difficult decision to make. He was a man who was brought up in the strict and traditional discipline of the Japanese. He was a career diplomat, who suddenly had to make a very difficult choice. On one hand, he was bound by the traditional obedience he had been taught all his life. On the other hand, he was a samurai who had been told to help those who were in need. He knew that if he defied the orders of his superiors, he would be fired and disgraced, and would probably never work for the Japanese government again. This would result in financial hardship for his family in the future.
Chiune and his wife Yukiko Sugihara even feared for their lives in making this decision. They agreed that they had no choice in the matter. Sugihara said, "I may have to disobey my government, but if I don't, I would be disobeying God." Sugihara was a humble man and, when asked why he did it, he often replied: "I saw people in distress, and I was able to help them, so why shouldn't I?" His wife remembered that "the refugee's eyes were so intense and desperate- especially the women and children. There were hundreds of people standing outside." Fifty-four years after their decision, his wife Yukiko said: "human life is very important, and being virtuous in life is important as well." This was a decision that would ultimately save the second largest number of Jews in World War II. They chose to help the thousands who thronged the gates of his consulate in Kaunas.
The choice faced by the Sugihara’s was a moral dilemma that consuls all over the world faced at that time. Few lost sleep in shutting the doors in Jewish faces. Many went strictly by the book, and in some cases, were even stricter in issuing visas than their governments required. Countless thousands could have been saved if other consuls had acted more like Sugihara.

For 29 days, from July 31 to August 28, 1940, Sugihara and his wife Yukiko unflinchingly sat for endless hours entering in the visa documents and sealing them. Hour after hour, day after day, during these weeks, all they did was write visas. They managed to issue over 100 visas a day, which would normally take more than one months work for the consul. Yukiko also helped him register these visas. At the end of the day, she would massage his fatigued hands. He did not even stop to eat. His wife supplied him with sandwiches. Sugihara chose not to lose a minute because people were standing in line in front of his consulate day and night for these visas. When some began climbing the fence to get in on the compound, he came out and calmed them down. He promised them that as long as there was a single person left, he would not abandon them.

After receiving their visas, the refugees lost no time in getting on the train that took them to Moscow, and by the trans-Siberian railroad to Vladivostok. From there, most of them continued to Kobe, Japan. They were allowed to stay in Kobe for several months. They were then sent to Shanghai, China. many survived, thanks alone to the humanity and courage of Chiune and Yukiko Sugihara.
In 1945, when everything finally came out in the open, the Japanese government unceremoniously dismissed Chiune Sugihara from the diplomatic service. His career as a diplomat ended and he had to start his life over. Sugihara, once a rising star in the Japanese foreign service, was forced to work as a part time translator and interpreter. For the last two decades of his life, he was a clerk for a company with business in Moscow. It was his fate because he dared to save thousands of human beings from certain death.
Today, almost 70 years after the event, there may be 100,000 or more people who owe their lives to Chiune and Yukiko Sugihara. Three generations have come after the Sugihara survivors, and they owe their lives to the Sugihara’s. Yukiko Sugihara recalled that every time she and her husband had met or heard of people they had saved, they felt great satisfaction and happiness. They had no regrets.
Aftert e war Sugihara never spoke about his extraordinary deeds and it was not until 1969 that he was found by a man whom he had helped save. Soon, many others whom he had helped came forward to testify to the Yad Vashem (Holocaust Memorial) in Israel about his life-saving deeds. Eventually Sugihara survivors from all over the world sent in testimonies and the committee at Yad Vashem realized the enormity of his actions. Only in 1985 shortly before his death was he recognized as "Righteous Among the Nations" by the Yad Vashem Martyrs Remembrance Authority in Jerusalem. He was too ill to travel; his wife and son received the honour on his behalf. Further, a tree was planted in his name, and a park in Jerusalem was named in his honour.
He said that he was very happy with the honours. "I think that my decision was humanely correct."
By courtesy of Eric Saul.
.....
I am connected with this man because my father and other family members were among those who received his visas, and as such I not only honour him as a man of integrity, but I owe my very life to him.
However in spite of my own personal debt to Sugihara, I find the above eulogy too strong, too emotional, and somewhat confusing. It tries to turn him into something larger than life, which in my humble opinion is doing him an injustice. He was not a super-hero, with incredible powers, he did not vanquish an enemy brigade single-handed. He merely did his job, filling out visas, albeit against instructions from his superiors, 1000’s of miles away. His greatness is the greatness that exists within us all, with recourse only to a fundamental sense of integrity, and the courage to follow his convictions.

In effect Sugihara was great because he was as ordinary as all of us.

Early Morning Ritual

My father was one of those people you could set your watch by. Every morning, following a deeply guttural clearing of his throat, he would spit into the sink at exactly seventeen minutes past seven. My mother on the other hand would be woken by one of the housemaids, around ten thirty. The curtains would be drawn, and a breakfast tray with folding legs placed over her waking body.
In spirit I must have taken after my mother as in my former years I was never a “morning” person. It was better not to engage with me until I had had my coffee and preferably not before midday. How I ever managed to navigate school is a complete mystery to me, and as I got older my mornings only seemed to get worse. Perhaps this was one of the reasons I enjoyed travelling, with its absence of routine and continuously changing scenery.
While visiting India I came across a method of dealing with my morning pre-disposition, which to my astonishment, really worked. It was a bit extreme, but strong habits are hard to break, and therefore drastic measures are sometimes called for.
I was staying in an Ashram in Rishikesh, a Hindu holy city located in North Eastern India at the foothills of the Himalayas. Rishikesh is a pilgrimage gateway to holy sites higher up and where the sacred river Ganges (Ganga in local dialects) leaves the Himalayas, to flow across the plains of Northern India. Rishikesh had many yoga centres that attracted pilgrims from within India, and tourists from abroad. The Beatles came there during their 1960’s affiliation with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.
It has been said that meditation in Rishikesh brings one closer to the attainment of Nirvana, as does a dip in the sacred river Ganges that flows through it. This was standard practise in all the centres that overlooked the Ganges. Around 4am in the morning, devotees would go down to the river bank, stride into the water, and submerge themselves three times, as purification before morning meditation. The fact the Ganges leaves the mountains at this point means the water is extremely cold, making this practise quite an ordeal, even in the hot Indian climate. The only way to of doing it is to "not-think", an appropriate lesson, in a place where thinking is predominantly discouraged.
The result for me was that, completely out of character, by 4.15am I was buzzing as a result of the steep temperature gradient, which was short enough to bring me to my senses, but not long enough to freeze off my private parts.

The Story
This story actually takes place during the cold, wet London winter of 1978-79, in a basement flat close to Harley Street. I was looking after a building where psychiatrists gave group therapy in fashionable consulting rooms. Our cleaner thought some of the psychiatrists were in need of therapy themselves. On the mantels and sills of the rooms, were carefully placed ornaments. He noticed that if he replaced the ornaments in their exact positions while dusting, it would be presumed the room had not been cleaned. So he made a point of slightly dislodging each ornament whether he had actually cleaned the room or not, just to placate the doctors.
The weather was miserable and I was struggling with the compilation of a film about my recent exploits in India. Determined to lift my energy levels at the outset of each day I decided to try the Rishikesh river routine. The only problem was that there were no nearby rivers to stride into, without requiring a massive dose of tetanus that is. Undaunted I decided to use the bath, which I began filling first thing every morning with about six inches of cold water. This was just about enough water to cover my whole body while lying down flat in the bath. I started to submerge myself three times to make sure every centimetre of my body was stimulated by cold water, before starting each day. This required a lot of courage in the middle of a London winter especially before the central heating was switched on.
For a while my days began with zest, which quickly translated into progress on my documentary. Eventually I started waking up before the alarm. On these occasions I would ponder on what I was about to do. Unfortunately these thoughts made me lose the will to go through the ordeal later when the alarm rang. I realised that on such occasions I would have to snap into action before the planned wake up time. So as soon as I woke up I would get up immediately without thinking. I would go to the bathroom, without thinking. I would put the plug in the bath, and turn on the cold water tap, without thinking. I would wait without thinking, till the bath was full enough. Without thinking I would step in and lie down, and without thinking I would submerge myself fully three times. After that I was ready to get on with my day.

And so it went on, the moment I woke up I would snap into action. I would go through my ritual without thinking, and then start my day with zest. But things are never simple, and I started waking up earlier each day. If I ever looked at my alarm clock to see what time it was, I would begin questioning why I should get up so early to have a cold bath, and invariably I would again lose the will to go through with it.
One day I woke up before the alarm went off, “Don’t think - don’t think”, I said to myself. I got out of bed quickly, “don’t think - don’t think”. I went to the bathroom and put the plug in the bath, “don’t think - don’t think”. I leant over the bath and turned on the cold water “don’t think - don’t think”. I waited for the water to fill up, “don’t think - don’t think”. I checked to see if the water was full enough, “not yet, not yet”, checked again, “nearly, nearly, almost there, almost there”. I checked again, “at last, at last”, turn the water off, “get in, get in, lie down lie down, submerge myself with water, once, twice, three times.” Zinging and full of energy, I dried myself, emptied the bath, shaved and brushed my teeth. I got dressed, made an extra special breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast, juice, cereal. That was it I was ready for the day, I finally looked at my watch only to discover it was 1.30am in the morning.
I do not remember what I did for the remainder of that night. Zinging away I doubt I could have got back to sleep.

The Pen

One day a man was standing on a busy bridge in London majestically greeting the passers-by as if they were his subjects. He waved a parchment scroll ceremoniously in the air while imperially proclaiming the bridge belonged to him. Another man who happened to be crossing the bridge, started watching him incredulously and eventually went up to him:

1st man:  Welcome one and all - this bridge is mine.
2nd man: Come on – this bridge is not yours.
1st man:  Yes it is ..
2nd man: No it isn’t ...
1st man:  Yes it is!
2nd man: No it isn’t!!
1st man : Yes it is!!!

2nd man: OK - in that case sell it to me !
1st man:  Errr … OK
2nd man: How much do you want for it then?
1st man:  £2 million.
2nd man: OK - will you take a cheque?
1st man:  Yes, that's fine.
2nd man: (holding his cheque book) do you have something to write with?
1st man:  Yes here (offering a pen).

The second man wrote a cheque for £2 million, detached it and held it out. The two men exchanged the cheque and the scroll, shook hands and congratulated each other warmly

Eventually, the first man (no longer the proud owner of the bridge) walked away. A third man who had been watching the whole scene went up to the second man.

3rd man:  Excuse me, I could not help watching what just happened and I am totally confused. I cannot believe that either of you were serious. The cheque for £2m wasn't real and the other chap was not the owner of the bridge, so what was the whole thing for?

2nd man: The Pen!

Poem

Aba Kababa - Andaman Islands 1978 - Sattva Kastel

I loved you, and that love, to die refusing,
May still - who knows! - be smouldering in my breast
Pray be not pained - believe me, of my choosing
I'd never have you troubled or distressed.
I loved you mutely, hopelessly and truly,
With shy yet fervent tenderness aglow;
Mine was a jealous passion and unruly...
May God grant that another'll love you so!

Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin, 1829







Varanasi Ghat


Ganges Ghat - Varanasi 1977
Aba Kababa

Source


Aba Kababa filming the Source
Sattva Kastel 1977

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