A Guest

A guest is a blessing. He should be honoured and made welcome. It is an honour and a matter of duty. A guest is also like fish. It begins to stink after three days. According to an old proverb. So no matter how lovely the person, if their presence is stretched for a period of time, it is no longer the matter of duty for the host, but for the guest to go. Lest his presence turns from delight into annoyance. Or worse. Open hatred. With some exceptions, of course.

Years ago, there lived an old woman in the dreamy village of ours. She lived alone, was over eighty and a funny, grumpy type. She was always in the bus, talking to people. She had a sharp, inquisitive mind and asked the most direct and private questions. Taken aback, people would give her answers, feeling uncomfortable, but pressed into confessing the weirdest things. After all, what harm could there be in humouring an old woman, who had no-one to talk to? I fell into the category too. I soon noticed that the lady, despite asking a lot of questions, never offered any information about herself. This, in turn, spurned my curiosity and I started using her tactic, turning the spear. It took some time. Unwillingly, she offered that she came from Frankfurt area after her retirement, where she worked as a children’s doctor. Being single, she worked in her practice by day and helping people in less fortunate circumstances by night. She drove to the farthest corners to look after children from poor, unemployed and migrant families. She was a hero in my eyes. Probably not just in mine. Bun no-one ever stopped to ask how she was doing.

She wasn’t doing any good. She retired here because she found our village charming. She inherited a huge library and never had time to read, so she wanted to do it here. The place is a paradise for bushwalking. She was burning to do this too. Movement in old age is healthy, fresh air important, Black Forest climate is mild. Food is good. In the first year of her retirement she fell down and broke her hip, so the bushwalking was taken care of. Then she got the Grey Star. Books sat there moulding. Being totally alone, she started getting dementia. Paranoia. The reason she was always in the bus talking to people was her unwillingness to go home alone.

Then her condition worsened. She was afraid to go home, fearing strangers that allegedly followed her. So she stayed in the bus longer and longer. One night she rang our doorbell at three in the morning. What do you do? Of course we let her in. It was February. Minus ten outside. She warmed up, drank some tea and went to sleep. In the morning she went. The next day she was there again, at two. What do you do? In the night I heard steps and running water. I got up. The lady turned all water taps on and stood, in a puddle, totally disoriented at the door of our daughter’s bedroom. Did she think she was sick and I called a doctor? If so, what was she about to do? I thought of tracheotomy. You just don’t know.

I learned my lesson. By all good will, charity should begin at home. Like on a plane, if turbulence starts and the oxygen mask falls down, you’re supposed to put it on yourself first, so you can remain conscious and help others. You must make sure, that all your, albeit modest needs are met, so you can be helpful. Among basic needs there are: food, water, amenities, sleep and security. A Vedic poet Sri Nagananda Swami writes: “A bed made of soft grass; seats made of clean stones; houses under the trees; pure cold water to drink from the freely flowing streams; and various tubes (like potato) for food. There are animals that help. All the luxuries that can be thought of are present in the forest. But if all the facilities lack only one thing - there is nobody making use of it.“

Indeed, no matter how small a person's needs are, there's a minimum that is needed for survival and peace of mind. If any one of those necessities is missing - a quiet place, roof over one's head and a subsistence minimum, one's mind is more preoccupied with discomfort than elevated thoughts.

To me, security in my own four walls is the most important thing. There are people whom I trust with my life. Those are always welcome. But no one can expect me to trust a person I don’t know with lives of my children. Everyone understands it, it is the paradigm of parenthood. However, how big is the private sphere that needs to be protected in order for an average person to feel secure. Is it your house? Your street? Neighbourhood? Town?

I say, a country. It is for a good reason, that my parents have left our hometown many years ago to look for a safer heaven in Australia. It is for a good reason that lots of people leave their homes and head for Europe today. But I also remember our first year in Melbourne. We patiently waited for acceptance, almost a year. My parents got menial jobs, we learnt English first and foremost and we received no benefits whatsoever. I, still a kid, went to work at the Vic Market on weekends, to help make ends meet. Today I proudly look at the people with whom I forged friendships along my journey. Some perished, as fate would have it, but a great majority have made it to become fully-fledged society members. Some run their own successful businesses. All, a result of resolute and hard work, non-reliance on the system, and pride in their own strength and achievements.

Such a society makes its abode secure. It is not perfect, but what is without a flaw? On the other side of the spectrum, a flood of migrants arriving in Europe today. Forceful, angry, demanding and aggressive, they make their way through the borders as if they wouldn’t exist. Once arrived, there are expectations to be liked, fed, clothed, paid and accepted with all the trimmings of a culture they left behind.

I pride myself on being tolerant. I am not so for brownie points, I am tolerant by persuasion. I was tolerated myself, and I think I owe it to others. But I have not forgotten what it means to be a guest.