Sometimes, during a crisis, we need to remember that when we bleed, we all have the same blood
Christ, the wandering sage, came to see me from the United States with his physiotherapist. He was a lean, athletic man with dreadlocks in his beard, and his long hair was tied in a gravity-defying bun. A T-shirt without sleeves framed his heavily tattooed arms. “I’ve travelled twice around the world to see if someone can fix my human avatar, and finally, my search has led me to you,” he said in a deeply spiritual voice. “And what’s the matter with it?” I asked. “I have this pain going down from my neck into my left arm, and it’s killing me,” he confessed, having admitted to trying every possible remedy, including trying to self-heal. He winced as he spoke of his condition, a flicker of earthly pain momentarily eclipsing his spiritual aura. He was a professional rock climber amongst other things, and was unable to pursue his passion because his fingers couldn’t grip well and the numbness in his hand didn’t allow him to get a feel of the stone.
“The legion of surgeons I’ve consulted across continents,” Christ continued, a hint of frustration colouring his otherwise serene tone, “each one a fleeting stop on my global pilgrimage, have seemed hesitant. They’ve nodded gravely at the images of the two rebellious discs in my cervical spine, those tiny tyrants pressing against my spinal cord, but none have dared to offer a definitive promise. It was always a ‘We’ll see.’ For a man whose lifeblood is clinging to sheer rock faces, ‘maybe’ simply doesn’t cut it.”
A slow smile spread across my face. “You know,” I said, a touch of amusement in my voice, “with a name like Christ, it almost feels irrelevant offering the usual pre-op reassurance about divine intervention. It’s like telling the Pope to say a few Hail Marys.” I chuckled softly. “Seriously, though, is it… complicated? Carrying that kind of moniker around?”
“Are you specifically asking about my name, or the very misunderstood label that the separation group known as ‘Christians’ have given an ancient consciousness?” he replied with a deep sense of purpose in the world. “I grew up in a region of the United States called the Bible Belt, so as a kid, I learned fast just to go by the name Chris. Kids are mean and they learn their ignorance from their parents. Now that I’m older and have a little thicker skin, I go by my name despite the feathers it ruffles,” he explained.
“My name is Mazda,” I gave him the corollary. “(Ahura) Mazda is the name of the God in our religion – Zoroastrianism,” I gave him some context. “More than poking fun at the divinity of my name, most kids used to ask me if my brother was called Toyota,” I laughed, describing a bit of my childhood. “All religion is man made,” he interjected. He explained how religion was born from the fear of the unknown and the incomprehensible forces of nature that man had no control over. Man needed to be placated through certain behaviours, and hence ‘God’ was born. “All religions were made by the political ruling class of their time, using the messenger as the leading figure, but constantly changing the message to suit their agenda – spreading fear, insecurity, and guilt amongst their own followers and hate towards all non-believers,” he concluded. Nothing has changed over millennia, I thought to myself.
“Who sent you to me?” I asked, intrigued. “My spiritual guides from another realm, with whom I have communication and gain guidance from, directed me to you to take care of my fleshy man monkey,” he explained clearly, knowing I wasn’t ready for that answer. It was quite a boost to my ego, that while so many people on earth were completely unaware of me, my presence had been felt in the ether. “I’m told that you are a jedi in your field and will end the war going on within my body,” he surrendered, as we fixed a date for surgery.
“Can I come in and see the operation,” Dr. Lewis, his physiotherapist and a yoga practitioner asked me as I walked into the OT. “Sure,” I obliged, “as long as you don’t mind seeing us slit his neck,” I joked. Within the hour, we did exactly that, moving the carotid artery off to one side as we reached the culprit of the disc that was badly pressed up against the nerve. We removed the fragment impinging the bruised nerve, and, with perfection, placed a titanium cage to replace the disc. The neck was sealed back up such that the scar wasn’t visible. His human avatar had been healed: he woke up pain free, able to feel his own hand. A few months later, he went back to rock climbing as well as heavy duty carpentry.
And so, I had the distinct honour of mending Christ. It struck me then, with a quiet resonance, that I had also in the past operated on Mohammad and Ram, a trilogy completed not in dogma but in shared humanity. There were others in my surgical log too: Abraham and Raheem, Shiva and Parvati, Lakshman and Laxminarayan, Krishna and Balaji, Ganesh, Gautam, and Gobind. Each arrived with their unique stories etched onto their faces, their external forms a vibrant tapestry of different hues and beliefs. Yet, beneath the surface, the blood flowing through their veins was indistinguishable. Their ailments varied, their pains were unique, but their fundamental desire was the same: to be whole and free from suffering. None of them inquired about the tenets I upheld or the rituals I observed. Their focus transcended the boundaries of faith; they simply yearned for peace within their own bodies, and by extension, perhaps, in the world around them. If this unifying desire for well-being can eclipse our differences when we are vulnerable, when pain strips away our pretences, surely, we, in our moments of health, can reach for a greater harmony.
Let us then, in our strength, choose hope over hostility, understanding over aggression. May the peace they sought within themselves blossom outwards, bridging divides and silencing the drums of war. May we not simply strive for peace, but actively cultivate it, nurture it, and fiercely love the very essence of it, until it permeates every corner of our shared existence.
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