In search of the miraculous

   Without Googling the exact New Testament citation I believe it was in Paul's Second Letter to the Thespians where he warned that homosexuality may lead to a Uni major in the Theatre Arts. When I told this joke to some acquaintances on a recent Saturday night I was met with silence. The crowd was a group of Christians. They were not offended by the obvious homophobic slight; it was the fact I parodied Scripture that caused them to be uncomfortable. Among the many intolerance's that Christians hold is the belief that Scripture is the word of God and no one steps on Scripture. Yahweh, if you are online and checking blogs please be distracted for the moment.

   My Saturday nights are reserved for Al Anon. In Al Anon I have found codependent souls like myself who are attempting to find a way out of the hell of living with alcoholics and substance abusers. We try, little by little, to understand ourselves. We use the 12 Steps adopted from Alcoholics Anonymous as a basis for navigation.  And therein lies the rub for me.   As an Agnostic I struggle with the many  people in my group who are Christians. I have become a pariah. While they speak openly about Jesus Christ I counter with proven effective psycho-therapeutic coping mechanisms. I am ignored. "My higher power is my Lord, Jesus Christ." And heads nod in agreement. I am tempted to wear a "Sister's of Satan" tee shirt to a meeting. If they can have Jesus why can't I have the Sisters?

   I do not have a higher power. I am looking. Originally, I was going to use Logic and Reason as my higher power but I concluded there are limits to these concepts. I looked at Naturalism as an option. But Nature is a cruel mistress. Cold. Unforgiving. Existentialism appeals to me but ultimately it leads to apathy. I need a Figurehead not a hood ornament. Krishnamurti was a brilliant mind yet I couldn't wrap my feeble mind around some of his thoughts. I think I will return to Buddhism, something I discovered at 16 and which soothed my teenage angst.

Having been raised in the country entertainment was at a premium.  As kids we made our own fun.  In the summer there was bike riding, skateboarding, horseback riding, hide and go seek, fishing, swimming in the lakes and ponds.  We spent all day outside bait for the mosquitoes and flies.  In the winter we played a dangerous game in the hay loft.
My older brothers had rigged a rope to the beams of the barn's hayloft.  They would jump from the piled hay to the rope and then swing back and forth gaining momentum with each pass until they let go and dropped 40 feet to the soft loose hay on the floor of the mow.   It was a big kid's game because it involved skills a younger child hadn't yet mastered.  The spatial ability to jump, the manual dexterity to catch the rope and the ability to time letting go so they didn't hit the two cross beams running the width of the barn.  The big kids were good at it.  My one brother could let go of the rope and do a somersault as he fell.
What terrified me the most was the letting go.  The rope meant security and I would hold on until my fingers and knuckles turned white.  The boys would jeer and cluck like the hens in their coop at me for being a chicken.  They would become annoyed because they wanted their turn.  I would climb down humiliated and have to stand there while they took turns punching me in the upper arm for my cowardice.  I never cried but the sting of their disapproval hurt more than their words or their punches.
In the morning after doing my chores and before the bus came I would practice in the loft.  I climbed into the mow and up the piled hay.  I jumped for the rope, would swing back and forth and try to let go.  The first few mornings I couldn't leave the security of that thick rope.  I was determined though and I continued to try.  Finally I could do it.  I could jump and catch the rope and swing back and forth and let go.  The exhilaration of free falling that 40 feet was matched by my satisfaction in mastering my fear.
I have carried the determination I learned as a child into adolescence and adulthood.  I have learned that letting go of a sure thing and experiencing the unknown isn't something that need be feared.  The secret I have learned is to know when to let go and when to hang on. 

Coming Of Age

   They had come from the major cities along the east coast.  Manhattan. Boston. Philadelphia.  From as far south as Baltimore.  They had come to see what John Shuttleworth's Back To the Land Movement was all about.  It was the summer of 1972.

   They were mostly Jewish by birth.  Students or recent graduates.  Middle class kids who had been to Woodstock or Altamont.  Transients among a generation of seekers.  They were into Buddhism and Macrobiotics.  They were vegetarians. Anti-war.  Anti-drugs. Anti-establishment.
    The farm was a refuge but the cost of admission was dear.  They had to work for their keep.   Those who didn't were asked to leave.  I was a neighbor, my family lived across the paved road from the farm.  I had turned 16 in April.  To the surrounding farms they were just a bunch of unwashed hippies.  The locals used the malaprop "orgasmic" instead of the pejoratively meant "Organic".  I quickly became a fixture on their scene.
   They paired off quickly.  Love is never free.  There's always a price to pay.
   We worked from dawn to dusk.  The men wore blue jeans and the women wore the peasant skirts popular in those days.  Planting and cultivating in the hot sun both the men and the women stripped to the waist.  The women nursed the babies in the shade of a tree or a piece of machinery.  No bras for these women.  Their legs and underarms unshaven.  They wore their hair long tying it back to keep it out of their eyes and a kerchief to keep the dust out.  The men wore beards and long hair.  They were all honoring their peasant ancestors although no one realised it at the time.
   On Saturday evenings after having eaten and showered we gathered to party.  The music was homegrown.  Traditional fiddle tunes accompanied by guitars and percussion.  We drank cheap wine and danced by the light of a bonfire or the waxing moon.
   Elisa was 23 and finishing grad school at Syracuse.  She was a good head taller than I was.  In my eyes she was the most desirable woman on the farm.  She was a virgin as was I.  The crush I had for her drove my adolescent hormones into high gear.  I was clueless and upon reflection so was she.  Neither of us imagined the heartache that was to come.
Dancing together outside the waning embers of the once roaring fire I held her so she could feel my excitement.  I kissed her, both of our mouths closed.  She pushed me away and walked towards the house. I followed her into the house and up the stairs.  Neither of us said a word.  She opened her bedroom door and entered. I stood in the entrance.  She told me to close the door.  I didn't know if she meant for me to enter or to close the door.  I took the biggest chance of my young life in the seconds that followed.  I stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind me.  I reached for her in the darkness.  We fumbled there in the dark for the remainder of the night.  Neither of us got much sleep but we were well rested.
   At dawn she arose and gathered up some clothes and her towel and wash cloth.  The top sheet and quilt were drawn back.  There was a dark red spot on the sheet where she had lain.  I started to freak out.  I convinced myself that what we had done in the dark had hurt her.  I was scared.  I slipped on my jeans and the shirt from the night before.  

   At breakfast no one spoke to me.  No one looked at me.   They ate their oatmeal in silence until someone began to snicker.  Someone else made a crack.  My face became as red as the pickled beets on the table. My friend Bob rose from the bench and walked behind me stopping to slap me on the back.  The table cheered.  I sat there wondering if there was nothing sacred in this house.
   I followed Bob out of the house and down to the machinery shed.  I told him about the blood.  He laughed and explained it to me.  He told me not to worry about it.  He said he would have his woman talk to Elisa about birth control.
   In the weeks that followed, Elisa and I were inseparable. We couldn't keep our hands off one another.  I would catch and bridle the family's bay and ride across the road.  Elisa would stand on the second step of the side porch steps and struggle to get on the offside of the mare.  She had never ridden a horse before and held on to me so tightly I had trouble breathing.  I explained to  her how to hold on with her legs to the animal's flanks and balance herself by using my hips for support.  I could feel her breasts on my back.  We loped through the standing second cutting and the louder Elisa hollered the faster that mare would move until she was in full gallop.  We rode down to the pitch-off and the gorge.  I tied off the mare and we would climb down to the waterfall.  We made love under the flowing water and dried ourselves in the sun.
   Summer was quickly becoming Autumn.  I was to begin Grade 10 that year.  Elisa commuted to campus in her Saab for classes and her practicum.  On Saturdays we'd go up to Marshall Street.  She would go into the shops while I stayed outside and pouted.  We walked the street either hand-in-hand or our arms around one another.  The freaks would say about this odd couple things like, "That's cool, man."  We didn't care. We weren't hurting anyone.  We went into the bookstore and sat on the floor reading.  I liked Hesse, Vonnegut, and Richard Brautigan.  I read the "Village Voice" and "The Daily Worker".  I decided I was a Marxist.  Elisa read Camus and Sartre and taught me about Existentialism.
   Having had a steady diet of brown rice, seaweed, and fresh fruits and vegetables for months we both were feeling naughty.  She drove to McDonald's one afternoon.  We went in and ordered a Big Mac, a chocolate shake and fries.  We shared the takeaway in the car.   She was feeling guilty she said.  I suggested we bring back enough for everybody.  Elisa laughed and said let them get their own!  She had me dispose of the evidence less someone look in the car.  Halfway back to the farm she veered off the road and slammed on the brakes.  She flung open her door and began to vomit.  I tried not laugh but I couldn't hold it in.  Between volleys she told me I was cruel.  I got her a napkin and handed it to her to wipe her mouth and chin.  She didn't speak to me for the rest of the drive home.
   At Thanksgiving a Harvest Celebration was planned.  Elisa's mother drove up from the City.  Bob had pulled me aside and told me what Elisa couldn't.  He said that her mother was very protective of Elisa and if she found out what the two us had been doing she would take Elisa away.  Bob said I couldn't come to the Harvest Celebration.  He said he was sorry but it was only for a few days.  I was crushed.
At my family's holiday feast I was sullen.  I sulked through dinner pushing the food around on my plate.  I went out to do my chores and kicked the empty water pails around.  I threw the pads of hay for the horses at them not to them.  The dogs cowered.  I went for a walk across the fields.  I got as far away from the farm as I could.  When I was numb with cold I walked home and went to bed.  My mood did not brighten the next day.
   The following day Elisa called and said her mother had left.  She told me to come over.  I walked in the house and several of the folks were at the table.  I was asked to sit down.  Elisa and one of the women came in from the kitchen.  Elisa took my hand.  She did her best to cover up the fact she'd been crying but her swollen eyes and turned down mouth were a dead giveaway.  Bob stood by me.  Elisa started to cry and looked to Bob to find the words she couldn't.
   Bob began by saying everyone knew how much I cared for Elisa.  He said that everyone also knew how much she cared for me.  He said it had been a great summer and fall.  Everyone had a lot fun.  He said that since he had no family he considered the folks here his family.  He said he had grown very fond of me and considered me his brother.  The folks around the table were nodding in agreement.
   Bob said that in life things happen that are beyond our control.  That we have responsibilities to our families.  Bob said that Elisa's mother was very unhappy with what she had seen here at the farm.  She said that when Elisa finished school in December she would celebrate Chanukah at home and afterwards they would fly to Israel together.  She said they needed strong, well educated young women to teach in the Kibbutz system. She said that Israel needed fertile women and fresh blood for the next generation.  Bob's voice began to crack.  Bob said that Elisa's mother had been in contact with a young Israeli Army officer who was anxious to marry and have a family.  Elisa's mother had arranged for this man to marry Elisa.
   I looked at Elisa.  Her head was bowed.  There were silent tears streaming down her cheeks.  She mouthed how sorry she was.  I sat there shaking my head in disbelief.  Bob's woman moved from Elisa's side to behind me.  She touched my hair and pulled me to her bosom.  She rocked me back and forth stroking my hair.   My tears came silently, like Elisa's.  I reached for her and she put her head on my shoulder and sobbed.  I stroked her dark hair and told her it was gonna be okay.  I said it again.  It was in that moment when I put my needs and feelings aside to be her rock that I became a man.

George:  You know, this used to be a hell of a good country.  I can't understand what happen to it.

Billy:  Everybody got chicken, that's what.  We can't even get into a second rate motel.  I mean a second rate motel, you dig?  They think we'd cut their throat.  They're scared.

George: They're not scared of you.  They're scared of what you represent.

Billy:  All we represent to them is somebody who needs a haircut.

George:   Oh no.  What you represent to them is freedom.

Billy:  Freedom is what it's all about.

George:  Oh, yeah.  That's right.  That's what it's all about.  But talking about it and being it are two different things.  It's real hard to be free when you're bought and sold in the marketplace.  Don't tell anybody they're not free because they'll get busy killing and maiming to prove to you they are.  They're gonna talk to you and talk to you about individual freedom.  But they see a free individual, it's gonna scare them.

Billy:  Well, it don't make them running scared.

George:  It makes them dangerous.



Easy Rider.  Written by P. Fonda, D. Hopper, and T. Southern.  1969

"And miles to go before I sleep"

Necessity being the greater part of valor I found myself preparing to go to the market the other day. Without a car it is a logistical nightmare to get back and forth.  I grabbed my Passport as an afterthought remembering how hard it is to get through Homeland Security without adequate i.d.
Hitting the footpath in good stride, I approached the intersection where my street meets the High Road.  With no tank or armored personel carrier blocking the way the traffic was moving smoothly.  I chose this way not because it is easier, but because it is more difficult and it is longer.  Any day there are not Guardsmen on the street is a good day. The route is steep and can be a struggle for those in poor health.  Foot traffic is always light on this route.
Those who do chose this way to run errands are always pleasant.  They say, "Hi", to one another.  They smile.  They help others who might be struggling under their burdens.  There is a general sense of camaraderie among the pedestrians.  It's a pleasant enough journey to the shops.
Having made my purchases and getting change from the pound of flesh I tendered to the cashier I found myself in a quandary.   Re-tracing my steps and following the footpath along the High Road would take more time and be physically exhausting.  The alternative would be to take the Low Road home.  I stood at the intersection where the two streets meet and struggled with what to do.
The Low Road isn't really a road at all.  It is used as a cow path and runs along a small stream. The path is a tangle of exposed tree roots and low hanging branches. Dodging the fresh bovine manure and the mud left by a recent storm I made my way towards home.  I needed to stop along the way to rest.  I sat down on the grassy bank of the stream and gazed absent mindedly into the slow moving water.  Staring more intently into the shallow backwater pool a meter from where I was sitting I noticed movement. Minnows the length and diameter of my middle finger were darting about in the pool.  An avid fisherman, I recognized them immediately as suckers.  I watched as they darted about seemingly without purpose.  The wet, watery realm they inhabit intrigued me and I watched them with keen interest.  The fish appeared trapped in the pool.  Isolated in their little world they created chaos stirring up the bottom and clouding their water.  I removed my watch and dangled the shiny band in the water.  The minnows scattered,  but soon came back  to stare at the watch band.  One after the other the minnow's put their big sucker mouths on it.  When it was tarnished they lost interest.  
Knowing backtracking was my only course of action I retraced my steps through the cow manure and the mud to the intersection of the Low Road and the High Road.
There was a third road home and I was determined to follow it.  The Middle Path or Middle Way is a route home, I have never traveled.  I had no GPS or map to guide me.  I was blind as to what direction I was traveling.  I came a upon a huge boulder on the path. There was no going around it to the left or the right. I had no hammer and chisel to break it apart.  There was no climbing it as I had no gear.  I sat back frustrated and cursed that damn boulder. I stared at it with contempt.  The more I stared at it the clearer its essence became.  Soon, that rock was no longer a solid object. It was just atoms whirling about.  I stuck my foot in it and my foot was swallowed up.  I passed through that boulder without effort.  It began to rain and I didn't have my mac.  I slowed my pace and walked between the raindrops,  staying dry.  The cloud burst passed.
There were traps set along the Middle Way.  They were double long spring traps, but big like for a man. One set was baited with gold and jewels.  Another set was baited with a beautiful woman who beckoned me to lie with her. A third set was baited with bundles of pure heroin and a set of works encrusted with emerald and ruby chips.  I avoided these traps and continued on.  I walked into a snare without seeing it.  I froze instantly as soon as I felt that snare on my throat.  If one struggles  against the noose of a snare the cam causes the cable to move, to tighten.  It can't be loosened.  I just stood there; it seemed like an eternity until that snare loosened on its on own and I extracted my head from the noose.
Arriving home, I found Melancholia shelling peas.   "What's up?," she giggled staring at my shit and mud covered trousers.  Take off those shoes, trousers and shirt and put them in a sack.  Tea is ready once I blanch these peas."
I changed and washed up for tea.  I was excited and wanted to tell Mel about my day.
"Mel,  I had quite an adventure," I began.  I told her about the High Road and the journey into town.  I told her about the Low Road and the minnows trapped in the pool near the stream. Lastly, I elaborated on the Middle Way on the journey home.
"Mel, we fill our heads with stuff.   It doesn't weigh anything and yet we put great value on it.  I have learned that this stuff is just stuff.  We see something and the stuff in our head tells us its this or that.  We project our stuff on things and people instead of seeing things for what they are.  Mel, I want to see as the blind man sees.  I want to hear what the deaf man hears.  I would like to feel what the paraplegic feels. Mel, we fill our lives with shiny things and when they are no longer new we throw them away.  We numb our senses with alcohol and drugs.  We use each other and then turn our backs. I feel so alive, Mel."
Mel smiled acknowledging my enthusiasm.  And then abruptly changed the subject.
"They hate you, Bill," Mel said matter-of-factly.
"Yes, they do," I said.
"And?", Mel asked.
"Mel do you remember the tale of the Chinese farmer?  A farmer had a magnificent stallion.  The animal escaped his paddock and ran off.  A neighbour came by and said what ill fortune it was to lose such a valuable asset.  Maybe it is, maybe it isn't.  Whose to say? said the farmer.  The next day the stallion returned leading a herd of wild horses increasing the farmer's wealth.  The neighbor stopped by and marveled at the farmer's new found wealth. 'Maybe it's a good thing, maybe it's not,' said the farmer.  The farmer's son was breaking in one of the new horses and broke his leg.  The neighbor stopped by and said how unfortunate it was that the farmer's son broke his leg.  "Maybe it is, maybe it isn't.  Whose to say, " said the farmer.  The next day a general came through and conscripted all able bodied men for his army.  Because of the broken leg the farmer's son didn't have to go to war.  And so it goes."
"Mel," I smiled. "Whose to say what is good or bad?   We see what we want to see.  Hear what we want to hear.  Believe what we want to believe. We deceive ourselves into thinking we are right.  Traveling the Middle Path today I learned that we needn't struggle when we encounter hardship.  Struggling and fighting only makes the situation worse.
"Bill, how about we go to the mountains for the season?  You can swat flies from that little Internet cafe along tourist row.  There's that pretty brunette waitress who liked you working there. You know, the one who looks like Catherine Keener."
"Not this year, Mel," I sighed.
Mel placed her fork down on her plate tines down, the British way, and said what not one of the dozen's of American women through the years ever said to lift me out of my periodic funks. The words that bind me to her. Mel reached over and touched my hand and whispered, "Don't worry, baby. You can rest your weary head on me."

Stigma

I Love the ways they hate me
The rumours and gossip abound
I give them a reason for living
And this makes me strong
They have no clue who I am
Where I'm going or where I've been
They've never met me
They only know what they've heard
Cars drive by and sound the horn
I am grateful for the acknowledgement
They point and glare
They imitate my stare
I laugh until my sides ache
I'm a minor celebrity
I charge five dollars for an autograph
Their hatred will destroy them
It always does in the end

Beginner's mind

weightless thoughts fill the void
no substance do they carry
we grasp for meaning from bastardized memory
houses of truths from fiction are constructed
built without foundation
we lend meaning to the absurd
this object mind does not exist
The self cannot be found
as soon as we think we've got it it is gone

bona fides

I have danced with the Sufi's in the park
Whirled like a Dervish 'til dark
Sat zazen with the Buddhists by the hour
Learned to taste the sweet and the sour
Discussed Krishnamurti
Gotten my hands filthy dirty
I've practiced yoga with a teacher
Been damned by Christian preachers
I've been circumcised, baptized, confirmed and pronounced dead
The great thinkers I have read
I studied metaphysics, epistemology, psychology, chemistry, sociology
Ecology, biology, anatomy, physiology, philosophy and much more
I've used drugs with the punks
Gotten drunk with monks
Been seduced by debutantes and whores
I've figuratively wandered the Yorkshire moors
As a youth I looked for my nation
What I found was an abomination
One thing was made clear
Intellectuals are feared
Of all the things I can do
I can't find the words to talk to you
They seem to get in the way
Of what I need to say

Untitled Alexandrine

Tales of love told softly: murmurs of a blithe heart.
No distance can disjoin, nor time rend asunder.
Invisible bound thread, woven taut warp and weft.    

Weightless gravity acts; unbearable lightness.
Torrid temperature - perspiration cools flesh.

White light illuminates, rigid muscles relax.

Separate egos melded, conjoined as if one.
Weary lovers reflect, mirror images sated.

Untitled

Swarthy tinted window's pierce the dim ambiance
Daughter of Diotima
Amidst the chaos she floats across the floor
Heiress to her Muse
With an Artist's panache she explains the evening's specials
Sweetheart to the Fates
Iron and steel forged with skill yield to her will
Mistress to the four elements
A woman of most unique talents

 Sonnet er Not

Where comes this bond we hold so dear?
The welds of the heart's forge makes;
From sparks to flame the mind's coke sears.
Burning passion, time like water slakes.
The bellow's breath blows braisers' breeze
To make the hearth's coals cherry red.
They bring the beloved to their knees.
And then to the wedding bed.
But gold bands smelted in Love's heat
Tempered mettle does impute:
Shaped iron shackles and chains greet.
Steeling vows now in refute.
   Judge not a marriage nor what's at its core.
   As you know not what happens behind closed doors.
    

Allegory


Palha had been watching for the man for some months. She had perceived an odor of fresh scar tissue in mid-September and sensed he had been severely wounded.
The man's timed visits to the spring for fresh water were predictable.  Like clock work he would appear and when he didn't she would come looking for him.  If the swaybacked old bay was tied out Palha knew the man was in his lodge.  He had seen her twice during the fall on the edge of the conifer forest the village bordered.  She showed no fear in acknowledging he had seen her.  Nature had provided her with the keen sense of knowing her prey's weakness.
It was January now. The Human Beings knew it as the Full Wolf Moon. The time when the pack would stalk the edges of the village looking for an opportunity to pick off a stray dog or perhaps a lame pony that may have broken away from its tether. For Pahla, and her litter from last season it was known simply as the period of cold and hunger.  The period after the fall hunting season for caribou, who had moved out of the wolf's territory.  A time of leanness in both body and spirit.
Winter had come early to the region.  Pahla was concerned she might lose her pack to the ravages of weather and famine. Her last litter - she was old now and would not come into heat again -  and while not her last winter it was close to the end for her. There would be no one to care for her in the end times she knew were coming. To perish from disease or starvation was an unpleasant thought and she tried to push the thought away.  She had chased off the beta male that had bred her about the time she had first seen the man return from his journey.  The man had left scraps of food for her; a sign he hoped would keep him in her thoughts.  Pahla was suspicious of the Human Beings.  She knew them only for their cruelty to one another. Their bickering, their wars, their steel traps and snares set to capture her kind.  Suspicious of his motives, Pahla waited until the man was in his lodge before she gathered up the food he had left.  It wasn't much as he was poor and she did not share with the pack. His generosity was unlike she had witnessed among Human Beings.  He did not speak which was unlike his kind.  He was deliberate in action and deed.
The man was alone.  There was no mate nor had there been for many seasons.  In his loneliness and despair he had tried to end his life.  Opening the veins in his arms from the wrists to just below the hollow of his elbow the blood had flowed like a spring torrent.  It just by chance that the man's sister had discovered his pale, limp near death form.  He had been stitched up by the women and eventually returned to his lodge. The ugly fresh scars a reminder of his lack of judgement.  Forever destined now to wear long sleeved shirts the man carried the memory of his time of despair and emptiness in his heart as well as on his arms.  Next time, should the mood strike him, he had promised himself  he would do a better job of it. 
Human Beings and wolves are social animals. Each species travel in groups. Sometimes playing, but always on the prowl for game to satisfy the blood lust. Wolves hunt for food.   Human beings hunt for sport.  Both are territorial.  A threat to one of their kind is a threat to the pack.  The man, by feeding Pahla , had disrupted the natural order.
The man's staring at Pahla, as she came to drink was not a concern to her.  On occasion she would stare back and he would look away in embarrassment.  He  could not keep his eyes off her.  Her loveliness was something he had not experienced in his life.  He'd seen many wolves, but not one such as her.  It was as if he was not staring at her form, but at something ethereal.  Something beyond words.  Something mystical.  He did not wish to possess her as other men had tried.  He wanted only to  nurture her; to join her in a journey with what time was left for them.  He would no longer be alone if she were beside him.  He was aware this dream could not come to pass as wolves and men are not meant to travel the same path.  Just the same, he grew more generous in the scraps of food he left for her. 
The time had come in the pack to break up.  There was not enough game in their territory for Pahla and her brood.  She would survive till spring, but the others needed to move on.  She chased the pack off  one by one. Biting at their heels, nipping at their flanks until they loped off to find lives of their own.  Alone now,  she was free to pursue her life and travel her path. 
The man stopped coming to the spring for water.  He continued to leave scraps for the she-wolf always in the same place, but never near the spring.  She accepted them grudgingly.  They would never approach one another if seen.  Pahla was free to roam her territory.  The man was urged to move away from the village. Pahla and the man would never see one another again.