Symbols of the world's religions

               

MOTI AND MOHAMMED

Margaret Craske

 
For the first few years in India, whenever we were staying on Meherabad Hill, it was my job to look after the animals. I had to pick enormous ticks out of the dogs' ears and to exercise them, to feed the five small monkeys who lovingly tore my clothes to pieces and to look after the deer, a beautiful animal called Lily, who was somewhat of a snob, always attempting to butt the garden servants, but greeting the rest of us with much affection and grace.

But the beauty and pride of the small zoo was Moti, the peacock. Every morning as the sun came up over the horizon, Moti would come down from his perch on the top of a high swing and walk across the compound for his breakfast. But not a second before the sun appeared did he move.

He knew exactly how to show off his beauty to its greatest advantage. One day a most brilliant rainbow filled the sky. Its half circle was complete — with no weakening of the color in the center. Moti stalked out onto the field, turned around, faced those who were gazing at the rainbow and opened his tail, making a perfect center for the half circle of colored light. I have seen stage stars do a worse job for themselves.

At one time, Mohammed the mast was living in a room on the opposite side of the compound from the women's quarters, and there Baba would go and spend time with him.

One afternoon, Baba with Mohammed came into the compound. He called me and smilingly spelt out that Mohammed had taken a fancy to Moti, and that I must fetch the bird and hand him over to Mohammed. Not an easy job. Moti was some distance away across the fields taking an afternoon stroll.

Laden with some green vegetable, I went across the field and holding out pieces to the bird, enticed him slowly back to where Baba was standing with His well-loved mast. The remains of the bait were handed over to Mohammed who, smiling and pleased, walked off followed by Moti. Baba looked pleased and amused at Mohammed's childlike pleasure.

A day or so later Moti returned. Mohammed had tired of him. I was glad.

 

THE DANCE OF LOVE, pp. 118-119
1980 © Sheriar Press, Inc.

               

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