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Andrews UK - Harriet Curtis-Lowe

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103 pages

English

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A romance that crossed continents ... A tour of duty ... A spiritual awakening.True story of how the author, a Flight Lieutenant in the RAF, met and married an Indian man; and of how exposure to different cultures led her on a spiritual journey from 'party girl' to learning about, and being transformed by, Hinduism in India, and Islam during her RAF service in Afghanistan."Love can grow in so many ways, if the heart is willing to hear. It was as though we were at the meeting point of two streams, West and East, the spirit and the mind. It would be the place where we would find each other again in difficult times, the point of compromise, of understanding."

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Philosophie et théologie

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	25 septembre 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781909183605
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Title page
Where the Streams Meet
by Harriet Curtis-Lowe

Publisher information
First published in 2014 by
Chaplin Books
1 Eliza Place
Gosport PO12 4UN
www.chaplinbooks.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed in 2014 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © Harriet Curtis-Lowe
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder for which application should be addressed in the first instance to the publishers. No liability shall be attached to the author, the copyright holder or the publishers for loss or damage of any nature suffered as a result of the reliance on the reproduction of any of the contents of this publication or any errors or omissions in the contents. This publication was written by the author without MOD resource and/or assistance. The views and opinions expressed in this book are those of the author alone and should not be taken to represent those of HMG, MOD, the RAF or any government agency.

Dedication
To my daughter, Bethany Hope and my son, William Gabriel; to my parents, Karen and Tim Lowe; to my sister and brother, Emily Rowntree and Matthew Lowe; to my friend, Theresa McGouran. And finally, of course, to the man who has changed the course of my life, the great love of my life, Kranthi Chaithanya Tadikonda.

Story
The little boy stood barefoot on the dusty roof looking up at the Indian moon.
“One day I will fly the skies,” he willed. He stretched out his arms and careered around the roof, feet hardened from the debris. “And my wife, she will be like Aishywarya Bachchan, with green eyes that pierce my soul. Krishna, Krishna,” he chanted happily, in song with the crickets.
The young girl sat on the long outstretched arm of the pink-blossomed tree, watching the boys charge round mindlessly playing tag. Her green eyes glistened.
“I want to be Prime Minister. I want to change the world,” she thought. “I have learnt strength, drive and fire from boys - give me mindfulness and the heart of a woman.”

Part one - A journey
Flying into Kandahar
Trust that there is a purpose for us and for our lives, whether we can see it or not. For sure, there is, there is. For sure there is
Jamiluddin Morris Zahuri
The noise from the C130 was far louder than I had imagined it would be, its engines growling and spluttering like an aging car, a constant drone that disrupted the thoughts and distracted the mind. Perhaps that was intentional, I pondered, pushing the soft yellow earplugs further into my ears and attempting to arrange myself more comfortably in the metal seat. I’m not sure what I had been expecting when I arrived at the check-in at Brize Norton on a warm day in early July. It had looked very similar to a normal departure lounge - check-in desks, vending machines, rows of plastic seats filled with sleeping bodies, nervous faces, and discarded newspapers strewn around. Of course there were the obvious differences, such as the clothes that we were all wearing and the luggage neatly packed into black bags and rucksacks. I was invited to board the aircraft first, a privilege usually reserved for business and first class passengers on a commercial airline. As we took off and I waited for my vegetarian meal to arrive, the ritual was comfortingly familiar: a small tray placed precariously onto a tiny table, foil lids, plastic cutlery and salty food that always left me with a dry mouth.
“Are you okay?” enquired the man with kind eyes and a gentle manner seated next to me as we settled back into the six-hour flight. I nodded.
“First time?” he asked. I nodded again; he squeezed my hand reassuringly then stretched out his legs out and closed his eyes.
I was no stranger to new experiences. I had just returned from India where I had lived in a world so different to my own that I had almost lost track of reality. India was a world of colour and vibrancy, of devastating poverty and spiritual richness: now I was flying out to another kind of reality altogether. A reality that bites at the fundamental moral make-up of anyone who plays a role in it. A reality that makes your heart stop then race, so that you feel your chest will explode. Everything that I had worked for physically, mentally and spiritually, would be realised in just over five hours’ time when we touched down into the sandy heat that would devour us and would steal my soul for the next three months.
I whispered a prayer to myself and tried to focus on what might lie ahead, beyond the dirty metal of the spluttering aircraft. I had joined the military to make a difference in the world and to force myself to be a better person. In the past, when I had debated the moralities of ‘just wars’ and the selective application of democracy throughout history, I had felt that my understanding lacked substance. How could I argue for and against something that I had never experienced? I often wondered this with our politicians, so quick to declare wars to protect ‘our national security’ - yet not one of them had faced the realities of war. I rubbed my fingers over my necklace, a grubby gold cross given to me by a dear friend, Ronnie, before she died, and a small silver tag inscribed with words from the Qur’an, given to me by my friend Noreen, who is so strong and steadfast yet so humble, with a spirituality and energy that just radiates out of her. It was Noreen who had inspired me to research Islam further. I constantly reached for my chain for reassurance and as a reminder of my two friends.
“We are about to begin the descent into Kandahar. Please don your helmets and body armour and prepare to land.” The posh English accent pierced the engine noise and my thoughts to reaffirm that my home for the next three months was Kandahar, Afghanistan.
I scrambled around to find my helmet, which had rolled teasingly into the aisle, placed it onto my head, tightened the chin strap and fastened my body armour. The lights then flickered and went out and my stomach surged as the aircraft began its descent through the dusty night air into Afghanistan. Memories and emotions raged through my mind, from excitement at furthering my journey in life to worry for my family and how they must be feeling. Flying into Kandahar in the darkness was an eerie experience. Men and women sat silently in the blackness, alone with their thoughts, of families, children, wives and homes; thoughts of the different tasks that we would all be taking on, and whether the plane might be targeted by IDF (indirect fire) on our way into the airfield. I knew that my emotions, strengths and weaknesses would be tested every single day and I prayed that my family would be able to cope with the worry. I allowed my mind to wander back to my Indian Adventure, where I had abandoned my higher sense of judgement and rationality to book a flight out to India only weeks after Kranthi, my Indian-born boyfriend, and I had officially ‘become an item’.
“All booked, Mrs Slow.”
“It’s ‘Miss’ actually and ‘Lowe’,” I’d reminded her for the third time during our conversation. “Great - thank you. I can’t believe I have just done it!”
“You will have a wonderful time. India is a welcoming hostess. Enjoy and please use Dial a Flight again.”
I’d put the phone down with a gulp. A slightly rash decision? I was prone to acting on instinct: my family had stood back in horror, for example, when I’d announced I was going to cycle from John O’Groats to Land’s End with no training whatsoever and a bike barely suited for riding across a road. Somehow though, I’d made it in one piece and raised a little money for charity. Would I succeed this time? For my Indian trip, I had had a 16-hour flight, changing in Dubai to meet Kranthi’s parents, who had referred to me as ‘white girl’ for the last three years and who spoke very minimal English. I had known nothing of Hyderabad (other than that it was known as the ‘City of Pearls’) but had felt such an inner calling to go that the voice simply could not be ignored. Looking back I now realise that we should never ignore that inner voice: it is our compass, our connection to something far, far deeper.
Kranthi was very intelligent but had absolutely no common sense or, as far as I could see, any sense of responsibility. I had been excited about seeing him, but this had only marginally outweighed my strong reservations about placing my life entirely in his hands. The Qur’an says that ‘God does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear’, and this phrase had swum into my mind every time I had considered cancelling my trip, picturing myself sitting alone, being stared at by eyes that clearly despised me, with angry relatives berating me in a language I couldn’t comprehend while Kranthi -oblivious to it all - abandoned me to go and play cricket or something equally unforgivable.
The C130 rattled a little. I returned to my reality. He had been worth the risk.
I heard his voice now: “I will meet you on the bridge tonight; wrap up warm because it’s cold outside. I will be standing on the bridge waiting for you at about midnight, so don’t be late”. And sure enough in my dreams he would be there, with his cheesy grin, dressed in my dad’s green wellies and oversized blue coat, loosely wrapping an arm around my shoulder as we sat side by side swinging our legs above the stream.
‘Morning, honey!’
Every time you smile at someone, it is an action of love, a gift to that person
Mother Teresa
I awoke, my heart racing, my temperature soaring as if a part of me had flown my resting body and travelled to another world while I sl