T is for Trees Hussain draws #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the fourth week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I've put together a collage of such moments which can be seen as chance occurrences, coincidences, pre-destined or random (depending on who you ask) for this month's challenge. 

I hope you'll enjoy being here.

Thank you.

Arti

*****

One of the Eight Zen Lessons for an Ichigo Ichie Life listed in the The Book of Ichigo Ichie is:

Just sit and see what happens: Our spiritual short-sightedness often causes us to look far away: in space and time -- for what's really right in front of us. 

Zen teaches us to simply sit and embrace the moment, 

with no further ambitions than this. 

If we are with people, we celebrate their company as a gift. 

He is Hussain.

In the summer of 2018, I was roaming the streets of Barcelona alone. 

The husband had work to attend to and I had no agenda tying me down. I did what I love. I walked without a map, without a plan, turning corners that enticed me and exploring lanes that caught my eye. My camera and I, we were grateful for such unencumbered pastures of time to frolic in to our heart's content.

In a lane, I met Hussain.

He was working with tin cans.

We got talking. He told me he hails from Pakistan.

I mentioned my grandfather to him. I told him I used to call him Papaji.

That Papaji had to leave his home in Shinkiari, in the North West Frontier

of what used to be one country

but now lies in his Pakistan.

He looked up from the tree he'd drawn

in an open tin can

and said,

"I can't take money from you then.

tum to humaree beti hui."

(you are like a daughter to me.)

I've written about Hussain before, on my Instagram post. And like that time, even today, when I type and his face emerges before my eyes, all these years later, I can feel the warmth of the love ocean coursing through his generous heart.

We chatted 

for a long time. 

I had no plans, nowhere to go. 

I slipped 

into a squat next to him. 

I remember a ledge that I rested on. It felt good 

after walking all day long. 

He kept creating 

his art treasures from recycled cans: painting 

trees of life, or knowledge or love perhaps.

I asked him if I could click his photos while he worked. He nodded and smiled and pointed to capital letters on white card that read 

'PHOTO FREE'.

He let me capture 

this meeting of our souls with lenses, senses.

With almost all his possessions lying 

next to him in a bag, looking 

into an uncertain future as his paperwork was still being processed, Hussain sat 

by the roadside like a King: kind, radiant, generous and smiling.

I picked a few of his art pieces and thought I'd give them to friends in Doha as remembrances

of the city

I found him in.

The art pieces sit on top of my chest of drawers--stacked 

like dishes--because every time I've taken one out to give, 

I've felt reluctant to part with it.

What is it that makes me so attached 

to art made by a stranger sitting in a busy Barcelona lane who seemed so detached from it all; so content; so at peace with himself? I wonder.

The next day, I went back to the same lane looking for Hussain but he was nowhere to be seen. I walked around for a few hours in the hope that I might see him. 

But I didn't.

He must be lighting up whichever corner of the world he's in.

Yes, he is truly Hussain. 

Hussain, I hope you're well and healthy.

Hussain in Urdu means good, beautiful, handsome.

Do you strike up conversations with strangers? Have you met any Hussains on your travels?

You know I'd love to hear, If you'd like to share.

Last year, I shared this song sung by our daughter, Arshia: Toxic Weather

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com