Gifting to others is not in our genes; endowments are not a part of our DNA
DO you believe in life after death? I do. Surrounded by death, sweet death, the scent of spring exploding all over me and its fulgurous colours interfacing with the epitaphs carefully scattered all over the arboretum, make my solitary stroll a pensive one.
Hello, who are you? I find myself asking a bronze plaque that I suddenly come upon, sitting silent in the middle of a stony semi-circle theatre crafted after the ancient gardens of Greece lithe with statues of nymphs and seraphs.
Marvin. I get the reply. Marvin, who? I peer closer. Do I know you from somewhere? I inquire, as my eyes focus on the flowing longhand engraved in a rectangular stone near by: Every blade in the field Every leaf in the forest Lays down its life In its season As beautifully as it was taken up Thoreau.
This garden in memory of Marvin A. Egger, dedicated in 1996. I sit silently in ‘Marvin’s garden’ under a 100-year-old oak whose leafy branches shade me and the overgrown ferns from a burning sun. A retreat in the woods ... where the dead come alive. It’s time to move on ...
The enchanting mansion in New Jersey with its pastoral gardens now named the Frelinghuysen Arboretum is my common haunt. And on my path, I always meet the long departed Charlotte,beloved wife of John in whose fond memory a trail has been named;I see Adam, who died last year but lives in name on the bench his family has dedicated; I stray towards Helen to gaze at her white and green gazebo that her husband donated in her remembrance.
Life beyond the grave? Indeed. Not literally, I mean; not the one our faith reminds us daily of us meeting our Maker when our soul finally exits our body and all is over. Friends and relatives mourn the passing and then one day their sorrow wears off. Such is the cycle we mortals are born to.
The life after death that I espouse is forever. It gets into my bones whenever I come to this ethereal sanctuary of the living and the dead. The living are the scores of school kids marvelling at the manifold varieties of monochromatic garden of flowers as their teachers walk them around the mansion and its green acres; or that wasting woman wheel chaired by her son sitting by the rock garden engrossed in nature’s loveliness, forgetting for the present her pain. The dead, many names, live beyond the grave on rose bushes; evergreen plants; trees; walkways; fountains; vegetable patches; recreational centres and horticulture classrooms.
Their names are writ in stone and steel and will forever survive.
In America, this is a common sight; in Pakistan, it’s a rarity. People in our part of the world die and it’s a given that their sons and daughters (albeit the girls getting far less) inherit everything. Gifting to others is not in our genes; endowments are not a part of our DNA.
In America, people will their money to trails, parks, gardens, benches and bricks — simple things that have given them immeasurable joy during their time on earth; they want to pass on their legacy of delight to others alive. You don’t have to be Bill Gates to share your money for the greater joy of your fellow beings. The only thing needed is a large heart, big enough to leave to others and not just your flesh and blood.
And if you are an heiress, it takes even a bigger heart to bequeath your inheritance, in Matilda’s case, a 127-acre mansion to be converted into a public arboretum after you die.
George and Sara Frelinghuysen, her parents, spent 40 happy summers at this country estate. Matilda, their only child, lived here until her death in 1969 and then left the property to the Public Parks Commission.
Do you know of anyone in Pakistan who has gifted away a mansion? A family home? Or even a shrimpy square of real estate to the greater good of the public?
Forget it. Why give to others what you can leave behind for your own brood? And for life after death, the pious in Pakistan have alternate plans — contrary to the ones Americans practise.
In Pakistan, the fad for the well-heeled begums is to attend a holy lecture — how else to define a dars — where they while away their time hearing how women in Islam are meant to conduct themselves in order to reserve a place in heaven.
For men — the fat cats that is — making a pious showing of their almsgiving and prayers in public for all to witness is good enough for securing a one-way ticket to paradise.
Granted our soft-hearted and kindred souls give a fraction of their wealth in charity to please Allah and to win favour from Him (it’s one of the pillars of our faith), a segue of divine serendipity would be achievable were these offerings made with the intention of helping humans. Not merely habituating them to a state of helplessness.
Remember what the Chinese say: “Give someone a fish and you feed them for a day. Teach someone how to fish and you feed them for life.”
Economic sustenance via tools that teach the underprivileged to fend for themselves is charity that is value-added.
Donating a garden whose beauty is inhaled by God’s creation, gratis, is a noble act of brotherly love.
Multinationals, particularly tobacco companies have erected nurseries meant to nurture trees for transplantation along our highways in Pakistan. Pious thoughts indeed, but piety laced with publicity takes the effect away. Their signboards, loud and gigantic, are self-serving instead of public-serving. Besides, what’s the big deal if these companies that pull in phenomenal earnings off their people put an unmeaning sum back.
Making a difference, posthumously, in the life of unknowns, is your coupon for life after death. Don’t leave all to your progeny if you want to live beyond the grave.
Gifting to others is not in our genes; endowments are not a part of our DNA
The enchanting mansion in New Jersey with its pastoral gardens now named the Frelinghuysen Arboretum is my common haunt. And on my path, I always meet the long departed Charlotte,beloved wife of John in whose fond memory a trail has been named;I see Adam, who died last year but lives in name on the bench his family has dedicated; I stray towards Helen to gaze at her white and green gazebo that her husband donated in her remembrance.
And if you are an heiress, it takes even a bigger heart to bequeath your inheritance, in Matilda’s case, a 127-acre mansion to be converted into a public arboretum after you die.
Granted our soft-hearted and kindred souls give a fraction of their wealth in charity to please Allah and to win favour from Him (it’s one of the pillars of our faith), a segue of divine serendipity would be achievable were these offerings made with the intention of helping humans. Not merely habituating them to a state of helplessness.
