Rich life of a poor pause

 Clouds float like huge cotton bales in a blue sea. They bear a tired look as they move westwards. They should be as the rainy season has been quite busy one for the clouds. The skies now get back their metallic birds after a hiatus of one and half years due to the multiple waves of the pandemic. The frequency of aircrafts is increasing. They look like another species of birds flying higher. Below them, the scavenging black kites have started to fly in the village sky quite frequently, a clear sign of the prowling urbanization. Nothing wrong with the change, it’s inevitable. We can but have better waste management and more trees for the kites to look for natural preys instead of hawking over the stinking waste of humanity.

A dragonfly is resting on the pointed end of the spear-shaped grills over the upper border of the garden gate. It’s a beautiful sight. I dare the monkeys to do the same. It’ll give a solid injection on their red bums. They but have better minds than to take their follies to this extent. So they prefer to get injected in this manner. If I had the power to punish them and they possessed the patience and willingness to take it, I would ask them to sit on these spikes.

This is the month of pitra paksha, ancestor worship, when people put ceremonial offerings on their wall tops and roof parapets. It’s believed that one’s ancestors receive the offerings through the birds, especially the crows. Now there aren’t many crows left here in the village. Only the monkeys and Homo sapiens are adding to their numbers. A few dozens of the crows are taking burps of kheer, halwa, malpua and puris. Looking at the quantity of the food on offer, the crows can, at the most, taste it. And just tasting it leaves them full to their neck. Being overfed, the crows look sleepy in fact. The major portion of the food is then taken by the monkeys on behalf of the ancestors. With this rich extra diet I expect more and more monkeys mamas carrying even more monkey babies.   

I am fed up with monkeys. I need diversion, something than can If you are fed umake me forget the simian-driven misery. I watch some Iranian movies. If you are fed up with the typical larger than life unreal song and drama romance of the Bollywood try some Iranian movies. They are so simple and small time that they pierce truth like anything. They sound like a countryside trill of bell, a little hymn, pious and pure. Majid Majidi is a master storyteller on the screen. His ‘Children of Heaven’ is Himalayan in emotions, even though it’s a tiny budget story, primarily concerning a little pair of brother and sister. It’s not a fight for billions or the best looking girl around. The family has extremely limited means and the brother sister duo have to share the same pair of sneakers to go to their schools. They are always running to help each other reach the school in time. The nine-year-old boy then runs a 4 Km race to win a pair of shoes for his little sister. To win the shoes he has to lose the race to two runners. The shoes are for the third winner. The first and second positions carry far more lucrative rewards. But these better rewards have no meaning for the boy. Our best is what we need. Beyond that it’s a pathetic tale of greed. He fights for the third position to get shoes for his sister. The first and second positions are as bad as the last position in the race. That’s the beauty of pure hearts. They indeed are children of heaven. Our children have such a rich potential for purity, innocence and unconditional love. It’s a pity that we allow it to dissipate as they grow old. This has been the biggest unharnessed resource on the earth. This I think is our biggest misfortune and collective failure.

The other movie that brought tears of gratitude, joy, smiling sadness and understanding is named ‘Baran’. It’s the story of sublime love, a love that isn’t looking for completion in the form of marriage or getting the person as we usually perceive it. A simple, bucolic construction site laborer falls in love with an Afghan refugee girl. She initially worked as a laborer on the same site. She had to disguise herself as a boy because the female refugees aren’t allowed to work in the foreign country. Well, he gives everything away to see a smile on her face, gives away his entire savings, sells his citizen identity in the black market and turns a stateless citizen. He can’t buy her costly gifts but he gives a pair of crutches to her father who has broken his leg. He offers all he has on the altar of his emotion. He has to see a smile on her face before she leaves Iran for her home country Afghanistan. She gives him a faint smile, a smile so precious given her inexplicably horrid pain and pathos. She drops her burka, loses her identity as the truck moves away, perhaps forever. When you give all you have for your emotion, you won’t feel a loser. You hardly carry any guilt. And a guiltless conscience will enable you to smile over tears. He has given his all. He isn’t in pain over his offering to pure love as he smiles while looking at the sandal mark in the mud where the girl’s footwear had stuck as she left for her country. Love isn’t a derivative of outcomes in relationships. It’s only about how much depth you enjoyed irrespective of what happened later. The boy and the girl never so much as touched each other’s hands but their smiles at the end of the movie say it all. They could feel love even though they couldn’t act on the feelings of love in the form of a formal relationship.

I have moisture in my eyes as I recall those lovingly haunting scenes in the movie. The fan above is creaking with equal measure in sadness. It is a battered, rusted ceiling fan in the verandah above the dining table whose one corner is reserved for writing. The fan may sound sad but it still is a happy home for somebody. The upward facing plastic cup on the fan’s rod has enough space for an old bat to spend his days. The fan has crooked wings and makes creaky weird noise as it revolves slowly. The bat seems to have fallen in love with this set-up. Initially I tried to rob the bat of its ownership deed on the fan. It was but so damn adamant in retaining its lurching cradle that it flew dangerously close to my face. It gave me enough warning to stop the project midway. A simple, nondescript village writer is no match for an angry bat. The bat is soundly sleeping above as I write this. There is a guava tree in the garden. I am sure he tastes most of the guavas in the night leaving them for me to eat during the day.

I am sharing something which might be disturbing to a few people. I have successfully opened very hardy looking brass locks of famous brands. What is disturbing in that, you may wonder. Well, it definitely raises a few eyebrows if you manage it with a thin screw driver. Before you jump to any conclusions and imagine me going around stealthily in the dark of night, let me clarify I use it when the option of the key is missing.

Once it happened like this. It was a heavy brass lock of a famous brand that had lost its key in the house. With the spectacle of messing it up with an outright breakage, I thought of giving it a try with a thin screw driver. I just put it in the key slit and it dropped open in less time than even a key would take. My sisters looked agape. I myself got a shock how did it happen. The feat gave me so much confidence that I kept an eye on the lucky screw driver in case of similar emergencies. And it did arrive. A peasant woman in the locality had a star of her eyes, a huge brass and iron lock. It gave her that much of security as no God, family member or the entire police of India would give. We can say it was her first love. She was very finicky about someone getting into her house and steal away her things. But as long as the house was under the protection of her lock, she could afford to take relaxed breaths a few yards away from the door. The lock was very firm in its duty but the key turned frisky and lazy and got lost somewhere as she looked helplessly at her obedient lock. ‘Let me break open the door itself!’ a sturdy farmer was ready with a heavy iron rod. ‘We can use it to break the stones, let me try this one,’ I offered. The peasant woman always accosted me very lovingly so I thought it my duty to help her. The look in her eyes told me that she found it as much impossible as driving the earth off its trajectory with this needle. She really trusted her lock. To her it was the strongest one in the world that would need the entire village’s effort to resolve the issue. Anyway, in went my screw tip to a particular direction—I am not going to tell about the specifics because people with ulterior motives may take clues and wreak havoc in neighborhoods—and the clock dropped open. It took almost half the time she usually took with her regular key. She was rattled. Shocked and out of her wits she felt cheated by her dear lock. She stared at me with open mouth as if I was the biggest thief in the world who broke open locks almost professionally. I had to leave the scene in a hurry. After that she lost her faith in locks. ‘Locks are just to protect our homes form dogs and cats, not from…’ she would stop and spare naming me and look at me suspiciously. After that I avoided the eventuality of breaking open the locks whose keys went missing within my house a few more times. The last time the best lock in the house, a big brass one of a famous brand, tried to test my skill. The lock was defeated fair and square. ‘You seem to have a lot of these experiences in your past birth,’ my sister laughed once. I just got conscious and looked the other way.

There is a lesson here. Just because you can do something, it doesn’t mean you have to do it at any cost. What you can do is definitely important. But what you shouldn’t do is equally important. You shouldn’t open locks stealthily in the dark just because you can do that with screw drivers. Do it if someone has lost the key and is looking for some help. It applies to most of our skills, capabilities and knowledge. We have to draw a line beyond which we won’t do something even though we are capable of doing. A car without brakes, and all of accelerator, may enjoy a furious ride but it surely crashes over the precipice after a point.

So the best lock guarding the worst provisions in the house surrenders to my screw driver. The cobwebbed interior is shrieking to be relived of its load a bit. I am in lenient spirits and agree to its plight. There go the empty cartons, bottles, mugs, wires, canisters, dented utensils, stacks of newspapers and many more things. I don’t wait to haggle a kabadiwala over the things that I find a burden on the old countryside house and draw out blood from his already anemic finances. I simply pile up things in a corner in front of the house. I know one man’s trash is somebody’s treasure. The things are usually picked up within a day. But today it takes much less time. They are already here as I yet to finish disburdening my barn of the extra stuff.

It’s a pleasant surprise. They are two sweat-laden dark handsome adolescent girl kabadiwalas. Why should boys have all the fun? The girls are matching boys in the space so why should this earthly domain be for boys only. They are sorting out things with a sweet sweaty determination. Their duppatas are purposefully tied around their waists. There is a look of full mission. Their carrier rickshaw is getting loaded with the old treasure. They greet me with a smile. Hardworking girls earning their bread through diligent work is something what puts them into the orbit of divinity in my eyes. I was once so overjoyed at seeing a girl electrician in the nearby town working wholeheartedly at my voltage stabilizer that I had to give her three time the money I owed her apart from a brotherly blessing on her head, all this to justify the moisture of joy in my eyes. Coming back to these waste collecting girls, I got so overjoyed at their complete dedication to the job—most importantly, their eyes didn’t carry shame, guilt, embarrassment or any other negative complex about their job—that I had to run back again into the barn and bring out something that would of use to them at their house. I dragged out my iron folding bed, in good condition even after serving for a decade at my Delhi rented accommodation when I slogged out in the editorial departments of academic publishers. It was now retired. But it still had much more to offer to tired bodies. I put it on their carrier rickshaw with full respect and a smile. They also smile back with confidence and pride. They are not begging, they are doing a job. And a job is a job is a job. Look for bread daily but look for meaning beyond yourself also. All of us, from rag-pickers to space walkers, can view our jobs as ‘meaningful to society’. Aren’t these girls doing an amazing job for the society? They clean the surroundings and clear away things that would leave the locality stinking. So dear readers, give respect to those who are doing their job happily. I have seen smiling rag-pickers and terribly unhappy ever-frowning corporate guys in swanky buildings. My respects flow to those who do their job joyfully, taking it to mean something bigger than themselves, a kind of contribution to the larger scheme. Every task done with a happy frame of mind is a contribution beyond the limited scheme of the self. Try to fall in love with what you do, just I like the task of writing even though a few hundred copies sell and I hardly earn any money out of my writing. But it’s my Ikigai. I am at my best in feelings while I am writing. Find your Ikigai!

Silvery cords tied to the heavens

A honey buzzard lands softly on the giloy-canopied acacia clumps in front of our house. The creeper, whose juice became the staple drink of entire India during the pandemic waves, has covered the prickly trees so thoroughly as to make it impossible for the sun to kiss the ground below. During the rainy season, the creepy huge tent of the heart-shaped leaves becomes a nesting heaven for little birds like tailor birds and warblers. Since there is no honey around, the buzzard has to look for what it can find to survive instead of having a choice of honey.

There aren’t enough flowering and fruit trees to sustain honeybee nestings these days. My unkempt garden has some flowers but they are more suitable to the eyes. These can sustain a modest bee nest. However, with the arrival of monkeys even this option is ruled out for the last couple of seasons. They relish breaking things, so how can we expect the honeybees to get a discount on this.

The honey buzzard without honey is just in the name of it. I think its name will have to be changed in the absence of honey very soon. Hungry and looking for a quick breakfast, it is perched with certain discipline and acceptance of its honey-less fate and cranes it neck almost full circle, its yellow-rimmed eyes scanning the surrounding leafy table for some eatable crumbs left. It’s a majestic dark brown hawk with spotted white underside. The crows and babblers spot it. There is a huge round of abuses hurled in enthusiastic shrill at the transgressor. A squirrel is also employing her vocals to provide a prickish tik-tik-tik drumbeat to the protesting chorus. The hunter has to look somewhere else. It swoops away from the noise. I wish him a perfect lunch of honey among the trees lining the canals around the village. There are many trees there and maybe honeybees haven’t forsaken the land altogether.

The other day I missed the bee eaters, the beautiful lemon green birds who glide like tiny aircrafts. Their wings when spread out and not flapped look like that of a fighter jet. But they don’t thunder like a fighting machine. Theirs is a melodious trill-trill-trill symphony. It’s better to have a fighting attitude and calm voice. You do what you need to do without bragging or boasting about it. Most of the problems and issues of life are beyond the pale of ‘what we need to do’. They arise of our unnecessary tongue-work. In the absence of bees they are also the bee eaters just in name. But the sky is full of flying insects. I don’t think they miss bees as much as the honey buzzard misses its honey.

Dining tables give their best in a bachelor’s house. They serve multiple purposes of whom dining comes way down the list. The important functions include ironing, writing, work station of multitudinous tasks, resting place for things that fail to grab a foothold somewhere else and of course eating and having tea. To increase the range of its services, I have put it in the verandah. It’s almost a laden wagon with a little corner empty where I set my decade and half years old laptop. It works on live electricity, the battery having quitted its services a couple of years back. In any case, it’s reasonably good to meet the needs of a small time writer.

I thought the dining table has enough load to my satisfaction. There is always a scope for some more of the utility; the very same utilitarian spirit that has over-laden the earth like a creaking, complaining wagon. The potter’s wasp proves this utilitarian principle. Now, as I type I have the privilege of looking at it during breaks. The wasp-copter hovers above and lands with its mud cargo to leave a bit more of it on the mud-house. The building is coming nicely. The cavity leading to the pupa chamber is perfectly round. Every time it deposits its load, it takes a rest, facing me with arrogance, its behind twitching like a wagtail bird all the while. It’s not scared in the least, I’m sure. An almost unknown writer isn’t the one to be bothered about too much. Well, builder wasp, you are within the limits of sanity in not minding me but please mind the bee eaters. They aren’t just eating the bees as the name says. They are equally good wasp eaters also. I don’t want an unfinished house on my table. It should be complete. Even potter wasp’s mud flat is nice if it’s completed and done diligently. So make a good one and be careful as you set out again for the next round of ferrying the building material.

The doormat-kitten is plainly a greedy-kitten now. It doesn’t seem to eat for the sake of the hunger of stomach. I think the hunger in mind has taken precedence and that is quite serious. It drinks more than it can digest and recycles it to a yellowish semi-fluid in the garden which isn’t a good sight. It has to remember that I’m the least suitable to be a pet parent. I’m not looking for a pet, that’s for sure. I just want it to be a semi-feral cat that loiters around the garden for half the time within the boundary and half outside. The food also equally rationed between the domestic part and wild part. It has but put all its cards at the domestic front. The barn-kitten is perfectly fulfilling my expectations of a cat. So the broom, not used that much for its usual operations and is happy to lie in good state, may be given extra responsibility of putting the kitten fur on its back in order. If it’s a smart kitten it will get the message.

The wire-tailed swallows have beautiful molten blue swift wings that allow them to get speedy dives and change of directions. But they have weak paws. I think they don’t have this word ‘wire’ in their name just for the wires projecting behind in the tail. They are named so because they have weak paws that makes it difficult to perch on trees. They are at their restful most while perched on wires, their paws grasping the straight line and bellies supported on the line. We have our strengths and weaknesses and theirs is flying swift and sitting almost painfully, so much so that they prefer airy love-making loops while in flight. No wonder, they have such strong flying genes. A few of them are resting on the electricity wires in the street.

They seem to be witnessing something special on the electricity cable below. The cable crosses the yard. This is non-flying love-making. But it is shifty and quick. One needs to have quick eyes to spot the moment. A love-struck pair of scaled munia, drunk with the procreative spirits of the season, takes the decisive step in their courtship. It’s a beautiful chocolate colored little bird having a chessboard pattern on its breast. She is twitching its tail and crouches low in receptivity. He gets on top for a second’s worth oblivion. The would-be Ma and Pa then fly away to enjoy some more brief moments of ecstasy. Nothing wrong with brief ecstasies but they come with huge time span of responsibilities. Their commitment to their nesting duties is unfailing. And that’s what it makes it so beautiful unlike we humans who would have the most of the pleasures and avoid the resultant responsibilities. This is what breeds our agonies. Most of us are looking for maximum pleasure at the cost of least duties. No wonder, multifarious agonies abound because it’s impossible to avoid stepping on others’ toes with this approach. So dear readers, enjoy your life as per your notion of enjoyment but never shirk responsibilities befalling your way as a result.

Looking at the underused, lazy broom, having made to look at it while working my mind upon the added task to give it some job on the back fur of the greedy and still lazier cat, I am reminded of my duties also. They are related to the broom. A confession here. I don’t broom my place on a daily basis. I know if I attempt it daily, I will do a half-hearted shifty job. I want to do it thoroughly with entire focus. So I do it after certain intervals. I am not going to specify the time period between the two broom tasks because people are very judgmental and they will say something disturbing about the state of affairs. So here I set out to work with the broom.

A puppy howls painfully for a good interval of time. In their innocence, the children easily jump out into the folds of sadistic glee. Their deeds are pardonable. They are a work in progress but the elders can definitely make them realize the fact of pain to other species. It’s an important parental duty to make them understand the things like violence and pain in easy ways so that they grow up to be caring and sensitive human beings.

All species are breeding very fast in the rainy season. It would be cruel to the lizards to expect them to not do so. They have done full justice to their numbers in nice proportion to the fleas and mosquitoes. Tiny lizard babies crawl on the floor. They sometimes almost dive and are dragged along by the fleas they have pounced upon. That’s the survival matrix. You have to hide but hiding might be longer in time. It’s but very small in substance. You have to come out for the flash of a second and take our chance of food. It lasts a flashing second but in consequence it’s far more important than the long hours of hiding. All this is a rapidly shifting show. We have to grab our chances with cool deliberation. It’s always about the balance between the pause and attack. Go one way and you are done for it. Stay in pause perpetually and you are sidelined by the forces of nature of its own. Try be a jumping jack all the time on the attacking, flashing stage outdoors and you are gobbled down by someone doing the same with a bit more deliberation. So balance out your innings. Make it a harmonious blend of pause and run.

The broom dismantles a few cobwebs in the corners. How can the spiders be behind in procreation? They spin a very fine web and know the value of patience till the moment the impatient flight of some mosquito or fly lands them in webby straits. A spider evicted from its web is a piteous creature. Its long shaky legs make it look like an old stilt walker. They move lurchingly to seek new corners. I have to break the stilts of a few to maintain inter-species balance. A lizard baby also helps me in the task. It takes a bite at the long-legged spider. It looks very funny, almost clueless as to what to do afterwards as the legs pedal quite a bit. Maybe it will manage its breakfast in a very ungainly way so prefers the privacy under the wooden chest. The spider gets a new home. It’s the tiny lizard baby. There is a nice probability that the lizard baby might get a brand new home, the kitten, the barn kitten especially. The lazy one has accommodation strictly reserved for pure, creamy cow milk only.   

The rain god is indeed in very happy spirits. A passing cloud looks down and finds the unkempt garden drier than its expectation. There starts a brief spell of a very nice drizzle. The blue is visible around the cloud. Rain with sunshine is special, an intoxicating cocktail of fire and water, a coming home of the opposites. The rain drops look silvery threads drawn to tie earth to the heavens. Mother earth surely is tied to the heavens, just that we have cut most of the cords and set the heavens free for our dreams and after-life journey.

Lazy ways of a busy life

 We are definitely up for climatic upheavals. The Siberian forests are burning. Forest fires blaze for weeks in North America as well. These forest fires, within a span of few weeks, have unleashed as much carbon dioxide into the atmosphere as entire India does, from all sources, in a year. Mother Nature is continuously sounding the alarm signal but we have taken it for granted. So here we are busy in petty fights over business, weapons, nationalities, alliances, religion, caste, politics, race and ethnicities.  

Many rulers have gone to New York to attend the UN General Assembly session. It’s a very nice outing at the most, especially after almost two years of incarceration when they took virtual diplomatic potshots from the confines of their residences. My advice is please don’t get too excited. Take it as a nice break only. This world is far better with at-ease rulers. The moment they get agitated, it’s we subjects we bear the consequences.

The ruling Talibs of Afghanistan are feeling let down because their representative can’t enjoy a trip to the big place. I think they have a big space to maneuver their way into the international body. It needs a very little step. Appoint a woman UN representative for Afghanistan. Then watch who has the guts to deny you entry into the UN. But probably they are even more scared of the free, independent, educated Muslim women than the idol-worshipping kafirs.  

China is just round the corner of again getting angry at the United States. ‘Why do they have the entire UN headquarter to themselves? We also have nice cities and ready to host the UN sessions,’ the irritated spokesman is just about to say any day. If they don’t say this, I would compliment them for their patience and understanding.  

You just cannot enjoy the show on other’s premises, nicely smirking over the fence. The spectacles spread like wild fire, especially if the spectacle-couriers are around. There are plenty in the village now, by the way. Have you ever seen a good monkey? The term doesn’t apply to their species. At least among the rhesus monkeys you can go to the earth’s end. You will return empty handed. So the spectacles that I have been gleefully not only watching but writing also creep to my premises.

There has been a very busy rainy season this year. Even the ever-thirsty farmers are folding hands under the clouds to spare the paddy that has been sloshed to the nostrils. ‘It will drown and die!’ they plead. Water is everywhere, it’s there is puddles, massive village pond, in canals all around the village, in paddy fields, you just name it and there will be some water. So who is still crazy for water? It’s the big alpha rhesus rascal. His pride and vanity has been propped so high, after producing many dozens of tiny rascals, that it now feels itself entitled to bathe and drink A grade water. It’s a huge monkey with plenty of strength in its hands. The broken water tank lid on the roof is enough testimony to his strength. My neighbor witnessed the spectacle today just like I had witnessed his best white shirt being turned into a retirement piece. ‘After breaking the cover, he stooped down to drink some water and then jumped into it to bathe,’ he repeated the delayed telecast of the incidence.

There I stood helplessly watching the scene of crime. At the other end of the terrace, the bather shook off its fur to get into action for some more acts of the same kind. Hadn’t he growled the other day, ‘I will see you some other day!’ I should have remembered. A lot of work awaits me. The tank has to be cleaned and the cover fixed. So thinking better of saving my energies, I get to the task. What is the use of getting involved with such hooligans? They are absolutely free to be ever-busy in petty as well as big crimes.

I feel like giving in and work with a sad visage. I don’t even have the spirit left to shoo away the offender’s kid, a tiny chit of a monkey who must have clapped as its father showed him how to bathe in clean waters, took away the sole guava, which I had seen early in the morning, well hidden and promising a good tasteful bite. The rhesus brat rolled away with its eatable ball.

My pride is wounded. Why carry pride at all if it gets wounded? I reflect over this and decide to be more humble.

The peacock looks lithe and smart. It moves easily and takes longer flight to land on the terrace. It has shed its plume. The burden of love, the huge load of shiny feathers to woo ladies, gone and here it is roaming around carelessly. It seems to be enjoying the real fun of life. Gone is that tension and agitated sense of purpose. When it’s dancing with its load, it does just for the pea-hens. Now it moves around of its own. Love seems to be pretty burdensome as judged from this episode. There should a passion for life in totality. Love is just a nice part of living joyfully. And don’t be crazy about anything or anyone. I think a reasonable amount of self-love does wonders to one’s quality of life. It’s the bedrock of all other expressions of love, be it relationships, arts, hobbies, careers, everything in fact.

The jingling notes in the silverbill nest are higher now. It means the hatchlings are plumpier. The barn-kitten has fallen in love with the jingling music. It’s another matter that he wants to taste the music as well. I hope his neck doesn’t get a sprain due to continuous upward ogling. The doormat-kitten has turned lazier by several notches. There is a high risk that if I take away the bowl, he will howl himself to death. He survives by continuously looking at it. What a focus?

The neighborhood simpleton goes lumbering like a kind elephant in the street. We call him Bo. There is no rhyme and reason why he is christened as such. He is big in body and very light in head. A wonderful state to be in! He looks so relaxed! His target in life seems to be the one who smoked the most number of beedies in life. So most of the time he comes along as a rolling, rumbling steam engine puffing out smoke with the exception that he doesn’t give sparks. He has no fire, he is so cool. O yes, I remember now. He gets some odd sparks sometimes.

There is another simpleton at the other end of the village. Our simpleton gives spark the moment he sees the rival in our locality. He runs after him, remembering that the encroacher does the same if he goes to their locality. A war of turfs, I suppose. They have divided the village in two parts and rule according to their simple, easy, relaxed guidebook of life.

Bo is a class of his own. He can continue eating without realizing that one’s stomach has limits. His massive legs sometimes carry scars of injuries. He just rolls up his pyjama. That much he does, of course. The rest of the issue is handled by Mother Nature as his scars heal like elephant wounds despite the entire spoilsport played by fleas and all.

He walks with his hands crossed, not on his chest, but on his back. He is not interested to take on anything upfront by crossing hands across chest as most of the non-simple types do. He simply lazily lumbers ahead and will see through you as if you are a ghost and he hasn’t seen you. Greet him in the sweetest or the shrillest manner. It’s the same to him. He is unaffected. But he has blessed me with some rare greeting a few times as we crossed each other in the street. ‘Kya haal hai!’ he would say and move on without waiting for any return of expression. Well, he is in a league of his own, just because we don’t know much about their version of perception of the world, we call them simpletons. But who knows, maybe they are more joyful than most of us.

Bo is seen coming down the street. Wait, he gives his rare fiery spark! Is the rival from the other quarter around? He surely is around, just that it’s the red-bottomed and pink-balled rhesus alpha male. Bo takes him as a rival in his territory and throws a big piece of brick at the target. The ruffian simian jumps over and vanishes away. The brick smartly hits the street light fixed at the corner of the house. The monkey has ensured that the tiny square will go dark for a few days at least. Bo doesn’t give any reaction as I look first at him and then at the broken light and repeat the same a few times. ‘Kya haal hai?’ he graces me with his greeting. ‘Bahut badhiya,’ I say. But then he has already moved on. I am happy that big Bo has taken the monkey king as a rival. His bottom will be swollen and redder any day.

It's a wonderful life

 There was a series of vigorous clapping as I beat the air pretty hard. Fut Fut Fut, the notes cascaded like hellfire and torpedoes in mankind’s war games. Was I wildly applauding some sporty excellence? No, it was done in defense. The dengi-copter had just landed on my turf. Dengi-copters don’t fire missiles at the enemy. They draw their spears out to draw blood and inject fever that most often requires a bigger needle to undo the deed. It was a huge one, the dengi-copter. With the cases of dengue rising pretty fast, my defense batteries quickly responded just before the enemy strike after its landing on my turf. Defense missiles clapped rapidly. The main problem in being a lazy writer is that the dengi-copter is almost sure of beating your defense system. The dengi-copter dozed, dived, uplifted and turned with expert maneuvering. It flew away to safety. My palms bore the brunt of the strenuous effort. But aren’t the guns very hot after firing?

Well, they say the movement of a hand on one continent has the capacity to bring rains to some other continent. My clapping seemed to have disturbed the atmospherics somehow. The afternoon was at the threshold of evening and a strong wind built up in response to my clapping. The trees greeted the wind in obedience. Different trees have their unique styles of greeting the wind. A peepal has strong branches and supple emotional leaves—no winder they are heart shaped and shake a lot—that get easily ruffled by the winds. The riot of emotional shakings in its canopy gives the sound of a small waterfall from a distance. The stoic banyan is too sturdy both in leaves and the branch wood to be easily disturbed by the wind. It prefers to stand almost unmoved like an old mendicant in the Himalayas, his body stable, emotions in equanimity and mind without turmoil, the weather elements just moving his saggy beard a bit. A neem is pretty easy to be appeased by the touch of wind. Its branches and leaves freely dance to the windy tunes. Parijat leaves are almost metallic in strength but the wood is soft and flexible, so it shakes with a stiff neck, nodding this way and that. Monsoon-fed acacia has long slender branches that heartily flirt with the windy boys.

My vigorous round of clapping definitely disturbed the atmospheric elements. The wind pulled clouds, big wagons of cloud. Some travelled very low and fast. The trees applauded their approach. The cloudy wagons rubbed past each other and thunder and lightning reprimanded the agitated trees. The wind buffeted. It started drizzling. A group of swallows flew for fun—not for hunting dragonflies for a change—in this windy drizzle. You can very well make out the playful dives from the serious insect-hunting sorties. There is a difference between professional duties and vacations. They flew against the wind, flapped their wings dynamically, holding their positions at a shaky point for some time, then diving along an incline, now rising against the wind. When the birds decide to take a bath in a windy drizzle, it’s a sight to watch. A pigeon also flew like a drunkard, moving this way and that way. A group of three monkeys enjoyed slip-downs over inclined solar panels on the rooftop. The gently inclined wet solar panels serve a nice rooftop entertainment park for them. No problem with that. The main issue is that the rhesus monkeys hardly know the point at which their fun game changes to outright criminality against humanity. Their fun and criminality lie so close that just a leaf drop is sufficient to turn them synonymous.

The kittens barged in as if the world was up for its last moments. And so did a grasshopper. It was a grasshopper that hated bathing perhaps. It assumed it was also escaping like the kittens. The slight difference being that it was escaping from life in this instance. It landed straight in front of the barn-kitten whose arrival in the verandah was rewarded with a nice evening snack. To the doormat-kitten the life is too precious so it went into the invisible folds of the farthest hiding point. The barn-kitten but isn’t averse to have a few drops of water on its fur in lieu of munching grasshopper nutcrackers. So the grasshopper escaped to death. The kitten got a snack. The wind dropped. The trees stood silent and the wayward drizzle turned into a steady rain. The music of rain on subdued, unmoving leaves is wonderful. It seems like as if the trees have opened their soul to the rains. The rain-bathing birds called an end to their flying showers. The flirtatious clouds matured to a stable grey homogeneity. They looked settled for a good rainy spell now. The monkeys forgot their rascality and hid under the solar panels. Without their tomfoolery they look so bloody moron, sullen and sad as if the entire sorrow of the cosmos has fallen upon them.

It steadily rained till the evening stood at the threshold of a gloomy dusk. Then the clouds decided there has been enough bathing down below. They resolved to take rest. A tiny bit of pale yellow in the western sky conveyed the unseen goodbye of the setting sun. The birds that had stopped midway on their evening march to their nesting started again as they shook off their feathers and started their remaining journey to be with their near and dear ones. The monkeys came out of their sad imprisonment. They got onto the top edges of the solar panels and shook their bodies so forcefully with vengeful excitement in order to uproot the plates, failing which they moved along the parapets to look out for the things they would be able to break. The kittens also crawled out of a big empty home delivery carton and looked at the bowl. This kind of rest does wonders to their appetite. Hunger is written so vibrantly over their faces that I am reminded the same about myself. I can’t just wait like them to manage hunger. I have to go into the kitten. And a nice, gentle spell of evening cooking proceeds in a bachelor’s kitchen. Isn’t life beautiful? It surely is provided we accept it as such and learn to see its beauty and ignore the ugly.

Life under passing drizzles and shifting loafs of clouds

 Here is a bit of advice for amateur cooks who are just learning the tricks of the kitchen affairs. Never compare your cooked items with the best food that you have tasted in the genre. Compare it with the worst you ever experienced. The challenge then is only this much that you fight to save yours turning out to be the worst. In this there is more chance that you will pass the test. I do the same as I try new things in the kitchen. I usually put my product in relation to a peasant woman’s offerings. Well, they are a nice couple. They have good heart but good heart doesn’t always mean good cooking mind also. She smiles like an innocent girl but her food will challenge you at many levels. The main test is to stop your tears as her pure smile wants you to finish the thing. But then she has what many good female cooking minds don’t have, a good heart and a pure smile. Most importantly, I get a benchmark in taste, which I can very easily build upon. I manage it easily and that’s pretty encouraging.  

Carpenter ants are the elephants of the ant-world. They are big, have nice protruding pliers that can take a nice nibble at the human skin. We played a bloody game with them as kids. Put a tiny bit of saliva on its mouth, out come its fangs, ready to sink into the target. Then we would offer our skin, mostly it was the big toe. Being the bigger elder in the paw carries extra responsibility. The angry ant would then bite and sink its double weapons into the skin. The bigger and angrier ones sank it pretty deep. Then we would have our sadistic glee. Pull the ant from behind. It would snap into two. The front still sunk into the toe skin and the behind in the fingers for some childish postmortem. The insertion would then be plugged out, leaving a little trail of blood. The one who had the privilege of messing up the toe to the best extent would declare himself a winner. A pretty disturbing game, I accept. But that’s the world of boys in the farming community. They cannot have mushy teddy bears in soft beds. So they pick out carpenter ants.

Well, that was decades ago. We carry very soft skins now. Sitting on a chair and writing, I raise my foot out of the big black ant’s way as it crawls ahead. These are very sensitive times. An ant bite can spoil the entire day, so why take risk. It moves on and meets a fellow big ant coming from the other direction. They stop and snuggle up to twitch their antennas. It seems a pretty hearty gossip. They can actually identity their own kin relations from the same nest. It is a kind of chemical signal. Here they are strangers belonging to different nestings. They just move on after this brief greeting.

Big loafs of clouds are drifting across the sky’s blue. A single strand of cobweb is flying in the soft breeze. Its one end is still moored somewhere. Sunlight sends a molten wave of shiny silver cascading across this thin medium as the reflection moves up and down the thin line. Nature knows how to entertain itself.

There are plenty of flowers in the unkempt yard: Red, pink, white and yellow roses; white and lilac sadabahars: red, white and scarlet hibiscus; soft red and orange geraniums; deep red peregrina; mild indigo petunia; purple red and pink bougainvillea, gentle red of Jesus thorn; white of the pinwheel or light of the moon; and little white blooms of parijat that keep the smiles going well into the dark. They say that a fairy is born every time a flower dies. In the yard there must be plenty of fairies then. If it’s true then I request them to drive away the snakes hiding around. But maybe snakes are mere wormy playthings to the fairies. Why would they then bother the reptiles?

An unkempt yard carries multitudes of advantages for someone looking for solitude. There are little inconveniences of snakes and mice. These but can be managed with a cat. The cat itself is a big inconvenience but its disadvantages pale in comparison to a snake. A cat will irritate you, the snake, on the other hand, scares the hell out of you. The main advantage of a disheveled yard is that it carries a miniature forest kind of feeling. Birds set up their nests. There is an entire world of insects on the ground. The branches wave at you with unconditional friendliness. By the way, the beautiful greenish bee-eaters have skipped their monsoonal trip to the yard this year. Last year there were many who chucked out dragonflies midair and feasted on the branches. So the dragonflies have better times this season.  

The monkeys seem well determined to out-populate the humans. I saw simian child brides carrying babies with much effort. The big rascal is now into child marriages. The worst are the adolescent males. They pluck out mischief out of thin air. The other day, one gallant tried puppy-ride. It jumped on the back of a puppy. The latter tried to maintain its run but crashed after a few panicked gallops. It howled for a complete hour as if it had been boiled alive. The elder canines yelped and barked helplessly. Then a blacksmith gypsy arrived in the street and shouted for the sale of rudimentary sheet iron tools and utensils. The street dogs find it utterly unbearable. Forgetting the monkeys, they walk in a long trail after the wandering hawker. The victim puppy also draws out pride and walks with taut tail as part of the retinue. Having brief memories really helps them.

The lazy kitten is obsessed about the bowl. All day it looks at it and doesn’t spare licking even the empty bowl repeatedly to ensure there isn’t a single crump left to make the ants happy. I am fed up with its unrelenting demands. It needs to be taught that life doesn’t center around food only. To break its invisible magnetic chain tying it to the bowl, I have devised a mechanism. A cat hates water, even more than the dogs I suppose. So I spray water at it sometimes when it seems that the craze for the bowl is crossing all limits and it may turn a lunatic cat. It finds it scarier than even a grenade blast and shoots off to hide in the yard, another matter that it has learnt to forget it too easily and crawl out after a few minutes. After getting a mild shower it sat sullenly under the parijat tree. That’s the best I haven able to push it so far, just taking that much effort to look in the direction of a prey. High in the branches there is a soft jingling of chirps. The silverbill has her house full. It stares into the globular grassy nest, waiting for the impatient dumpling to commit the error of stepping a wing out too prematurely and tumble down on a cat’s table. A lot of them do it in fact, so cats usually wait patiently below for days on end, looking for that slight misadventure by the soft, meaty hatchling. The silverbill parents have very soft trills. The reprimanded kitten’s brother also joins in the staring game. There they eat the nest with their eyes. A tailor bird couple finds it deeply disturbing. They have tailored their nest somewhere in the lower branches. The stitched nest of three leaves is well camouflaged. But they cannot take a risk. ‘Why are you staring this way?’ they shoot back. These little creatures are well made for quarrels. They are ready for it all the time. A few babblers also join their winged brethren. Soon it’s a big brawl. The cats find it unbearable for their ears and leave in disgust.

The other day, a big-mouthed fatty male cat arrived in the yard. The bowl-licker turned on its heels and scampered into the verandah and turned invisible. The bowl is too precious, so this life has to be kept safe. The barn dweller kitten crouched more in defense, its hair upright and gave a preeny, sharp weepish growl. At least it tried to stand guard. The bigger male knows that this tiny rascal will take away his girls in future so finds him enemy. The smaller Romeo also knows that to win a girl in future it has to pass this test. All around it seems just a fight for girls across the species. The bigger rival toppled the smaller one. I stand and watch. I know exactly when to intervene. I know at what point it may turn fatal for the little cat. But before that the little one has to show that it can fight. The bigger suitor for girls is almost double in size so the smaller one rolls on its back and raises its front paws like an expert pugilist. It growls and hisses hideously and furtively throws around its punches. That’s the fighting spirit! As an underdog you fight to save your neck and give a few scratches on the opponent’s face. When was a fight decided by the body size? It’s basically in the spirits. The tiny firecracker forces the big bully to retreat. After the fight it looks pretty ruffled and roughened up. But it has shown enough spirit and willpower to remind the bully cat that his girls will have a dashing young lover very soon. The sissy bowl-lover crawls out and goes out to check his brother. He cuddles and puts his ruffled moustaches in order by affectionate licking. Well, no problem cat with the aesthetics. You love your bowl; he has his eyes already on love beyond the fence.

The major advantage of getting married in teens is that you become a grandparent in just your forties. There are many such grandparents in the village. If a grandson is born to such couples, they have enough youth in their legs to shake to bawdy Haryanvi songs in celebration. Yesterday the air shivered with loud thumps and beats of coarse music as the mammoth woofers and speakers shook the walls to match the pride and happiness of a couple that turned grandparents in just their early forties. Liquor flew freely. The Haryanvi songs created a kind of earthquake. The drunkards have such audacious lungs to even shout over the loudest music. They even out-sanitized the normal people during the pandemic. As very healthy and disciplined people fell victim to the virus, the drunkards stood well and safe surprisingly. Possibly the repeated sanitization of throats proved better than hand sanitization. They even know it. In fact they boast about it. Even the worst drunkard, nearest to death in the village, kept his shouts and drunken pouts even without a sneeze. He is still alive and kicking and drinking well. ‘And we don’t take even a single precaution like you guys!’ they boast in a condemnatory tone at the lesser non-drinking mortals. Well, that shouldn’t encourage more drinking. Living without awareness is no living at all. We have to be in our senses to enjoy our pleasures and cope up with the pains.

The suggestive, lewd gyrations of Haryanvi songs created a whirlpool of fiery passions and the drunkards raised a lot of dust in the street. After hours of merry-making, there has to be a big loud-mouthed brawl also as a kind of dessert after the main course. The expenditure on liquor seems a waste if there is no quarrel at the far end of celebrations. The quarrel serves a big purpose, without it the celebrations won’t stop. So there was a causeless brawl in which all shouted for being the worst victims of their fellow merry-makers’ worst tyranny. Here a surprise sprang up. The numero uno drunkard, who is permanently sloshed and roams the streets raising brawls with dogs, monkeys and humans in equal measure, turned stoic. Doing as others do isn’t his forte. So in the hours-long brawl his drunk voice was the only sound of sanity. He sounded like a piously drunk sage. The next day, when the rest of the humanity turned sane, he regained his lost status and raised extra ruckus in the streets as if to make up for the loss of those moments.

Solitude in an unkempt yard

 It was a potted hibiscus plant. Its white flowers appeared to appeal for more freedom. ‘I can give you a drizzle of smile, just give me more space!’ the plant beseeched. It’s advisable to be considerate and sensitive towards smiles. A smile is a gift. One should simply take it without thinking to much. Overthinking ruins smiles. So the plant was fixed on a larger stage in the flower bed. It simply launched itself into fulfilling its promise of more smiles. A very robust hibiscus it became. Multitudes of big white flowers laugh now in abundance among its glossy, richly green leaves. Once in a while, it decides to spring a surprise and a baby pink flower smiles among dozens of it pristine white flowers. Is it to spring a surprise as the human keeper of the flower bed?  

Yesterday evening I stooped down to pick up the shovel and my left eye got into the space of a soft bud. It’s a direct hit. But a bud isn’t too bad on one’s eyes even at its worst. I feel the impact and moderate pain. As I squinted and looked at the playful bud with one eye, I found it was the pink bud. The wince and grimace is gone. I smile as a bit of water trickled down. ‘Don’t worry, I’m here to give you smile, not tears,’ the bud promised. And today it keeps its promise. It’s a dazzling baby pink flower among its flashing white siblings. The eye that had a tear now gets a beautiful vision, a kind of nourishing tonic. It shows we can very well choose to play down the involuntary hurts to our hearts and bruises to our egos. Most of the unintentional fallouts on us carry the prospects of good intentions in future provided we don’t nip it in the bud, carried by our instinctive, compulsive reaction. Patience and understanding turn life wholesome.

Today, the clouds and the sun have an equal say in the skies. Huge loafs of grayish white clouds drift like bulky airy ships. They are scattered on the blue canvas. Monsoon is certainly losing its grip at last. There are many who would say a happy goodbye to the seasonal rains this year. The clouds have been pretty benevolent. The clouds roll and rumble over the sun. There are shifting shadows.

A shikra, a small hawk, swoops down and plucks away an adventurous lizard from the neem trunk. Maybe the lizard was bored with cornered life among the walls and looked for more of life and living outside the fence. Well, it’s part of the little hawk now and can certainly look at the bigger world through the predator’s eyes. Isn’t it a marvelous recycling, the prey turns into the predator as it gets digested to form the flesh and blood in the new body?

Last evening even the kitten was equally smart in turning a lizard into a cat. It is turning very lazy and finds hunting very boring, especially given the fact that the bowl is there to pacify its gluttony. So why hunt? I didn’t change the status of the empty bowl with a purpose. It kept on sullenly looking from me to the bowl throughout the afternoon. No wonder, the need to hunt arose. There was this beautiful lizard that passed its days in the roof drain. It led a beautiful life I think. It would crawl out to even sunbathe sometimes. The kitten has turned so lazy that it won’t bother to even make an attempt at it as the bowl is near the pipe’s mouth. It would just do justice to the bowl contents and the lizard got more time to get tanned. But last evening, the kitten was steely and resolved to do something about the issue of hunger. The bowl had turned heartless and wasn’t responding to the kitten’s magic trick of staring at it continuously and the pure desi cow milk materialized. It then realized the snack that had been crawling right under its nose. Maybe even the lizard had turned careless after seeing the snoozing and sleeping little cat. We have our bad day, all of us, don’t we? It had been a bad day for the fasting kitten and now it was the turn for the lizard’s evening to be really bad. The hungry kitten pounced wholeheartedly and ate the lizard in one lot. I could just see the tail twitching as it too went inside to turn silent finally. To tell you frankly, I felt myself as a partner in crime for having abetted this hunt. Is any of our acts free from being a kind of sin for someone else?

The monkeys are still more energetic today. A kitchen seems to be raided in the neighborhood. The utensils cry at the top of their voice. A very offensive oath is hurled. The culprits run out and jump onto a gulmohar in front of our house, severally damaging the still remaining branches. They just love breaking it down. The tree seems like there was no monsoon at all. I have seen so many rascals loafing around with twigs in their mouths as if they use it as a toothbrush.

One extra judicious one has picked up a white shirt from the house bearing the rattled kitchen. It’s the very same white shirt that the poor farmer uses on all occasions ranging from cremations to marriage functions. I think the shirt is relieved of its duties now. The buttons that proudly rolled through the farmer’s fingers to find their place through the slits to get locked safely are now passing through the simian teeth. The buttons are chewed to satisfaction. Seething with impotent rage, the farmer hurls a full brick into the tree which doesn’t go too far and lands among the group of dogs who are throwing abuses from the side of humans. The dogs give a nice presentation of a stampede as they go howling, possibly abusing the humans now.

Put the strongest of a man face to face against the weakest of a monkey. The latter will at least ensure to mock an attack before showing its red bum as long as the man is standing straight or even has a stick. That much pride they salvage. The best trick against the monkeys is to suddenly crouch low as if you are picking up a nuclear warhead, even though there is nothing to pick up. It just scares them out of their wits. They forget to feign their customary mock attack and instantly give you the pleasure of showing the pink of their bum. With this technique, even the weakest of a human can scare away the strongest of a monkey. I find it more effective than holding a stick and challenge them in a fair and square way. Maybe they take their feigned attacks as victory, so I have to deprive them of it also.

The big neighborhood news is that another street dog has been slapped by the big simian harem-keeper. But this dog itself is a bully who beats smaller puppies. So I don’t hold anything against the pink-balled villain at least in this regard. But rest of his crimes stand with full force against him.   

The silverbill seems to have carried good luck with the arrival of kittens in the yard. I have observed monsoon time globular nesting of scaled munias and silverbills in the yard trees over the years. There hasn’t been a single successful hatching so far. Mostly the culprits have been the squirrels who just love sneaking into the globular safe house and have nice snacks. The cute bird can’t even abuse, they just trill almost inaudibly. As the Mama cat arrived with her little ones, she ensured that all other claimants to the property are disposed off first, so there she squatted patiently among the flowers and expertly turned the striped hunters into preys one by one. The squirrels then turned into the little kittens as they gobbled up the soft meat pies. The squirrels paid for their villainy of the past many seasons. But then even the cats have to pay for the same. Dogs will ensure that, don’t worry. So the globular messy nesting has hatching this time. I can hear their happy jingling notes sometimes. The kittens also know that there is great meal over there but it’s placed too high among the top branches. Staring there just gives them some kind of neck and eyes tratak yoga, nothing more. But it’s a good time pass for them nonetheless.

We have talked a lot about these kittens. Let’s go into the beginning of the story for the benefit of our readers. Feral Mama cats are very resourceful in raising their brood. They would keep shifting their kittens across barns and yards till they find a safe one. Then they would take leave of absence for few hours and hunt outside. Meanwhile the kittens just hide like a mouse. The entire days and nights of the cat Mama are spent in hunting as the boys and girls are a first rate example of unquenchable gluttony. As the kittens grow, the Mama cat’s visits turn to twice a day, then once, then once in a couple of days and she would forget them once she realizes that they can mind their own business now. What saintly detachment after fulfilling the responsibilities?         

She arrived with her twins and seemed to say, ‘Your unkempt yard and shabby barn is ours.’ During the initial days they were scared and pretty subdued. The continuous rat supply by the Mama and the passage of days added to their confidence and now they believed that it is their place just like I take it as my own for being born here. The only difference is that we have designed a registration paper for the property. They but hold it in their heart and with even bigger confidence I tell you. They seem to be very strong in their conviction about the ownership of the place. The kittens then mewed with predatory intent. They meant it and raised their fur to look strong enough to defend their right. I had no option and handed over the title deed to these rascally kittens, twin brothers. They were all cuddly love for each other, except when their mother appeared after two three days with a fat rat. Both of them pounced upon the mother's pudding. The stronger one dragged the other along with the fat rat. The poor claimant let go of the fat rat and watched from a distance as the bigger rascal had his tummy full. The watcher then sneaked in to claim the leftovers. The bigger rascal is a very strong southpaw. He expertly keeps kicking at the face of its brother while gobbling down the bigger chapatti pieces. He boxes rather, gives an effective over the top smash. Once it takes burps of contentment and proudly puts its moustaches in order, the other one again comes out to do justice to the leftover pieces. No wonder, the bigger rascal is exponentially getting bigger in body also. That's life at the level of plants, animals, birds and insects. They fight to survive. We also do the same. But we have the extra option of consciously cooperating to create something. That means we are just a bit smarter animals.

The weaker one nurtured its aesthetics, a cuteness to win human affection. It prefers the doormat unlike the other one who prefers the yard and the barn. The bowl-lover finds the bowl a kind of centre of the world. Consequently its center is too narrow, which means lesser of life and living. It’s always looking either at me or the bowl. He has a very nice bowl-keeper I suppose. The other one who loves outdoors in the yard and looks confidently into the camera as I take a pick. It has a larger centre and hence a bigger more exciting life. The kitten with fragile, vulnerable aesthetics looks scared and suspiciously into the camera. Both of them are males and already seem to have carved out their territories. The outdoor type even goes out and tries rats sometimes when he is fed up with lizards, skinks, leeches and frogs in the yard. He shares milk also with his brother but doesn’t drink much. He just moves away midway, stretching its back with contentment. It’s basically a non-veg kind of guy. I’m sure he will come of age earlier and successfully follow a cat girl. Only then he will forget the yard after being whiplashed by the hormonal storm of youth. I am worried about the other one. It may turn out to be too cute to chase a girl with success. I mean the cat girl may play with it sometimes but I doubt whether she will find it worth being the Papa of her kids. This doormat-sleeper has to toughen up a bit. I will devise ways. Scaling down the bowl-magic will help I think. 

The beginning of a new day

 An absolutely dazzling morning gives me a wholesome smile. The sunrays are golden. How kind he is! The sky is pristine blue. How happy it looks! The wispy, scattered fluffs of clouds a dazzling white. How playful they are! There is cool gentle breeze that carries swarms of dragonflies like insect drones. How confident and coquettish is the breeze!

There is a groofy, rumbling and scratchily drawn series of notes sent out by a bird. The Himalayan barbet, it strikes me. The barbet is the one that has played symphony with my solitude in valleys when I move around the lone trails among the hills. Now here in the plains, the rains have broken all previous records for the month of September. I suppose all the dispirited, famished countryside from the Himalayan foothills to the dusty plains in the Delhi NCR has turned pretty luxuriant to keep the spirits of some lone Himalayan barbet to keep flying, carried by the wanderlust spirits and here it reaches the village to remind of those beautiful days in the valleys, where its call droned over the lazy slopes in misty vales. Well, I run out in the yard to find that dreams are dreams only, at least in this instance. The reality is a separate entity. But it’s only our dreams that provide a kind of lease to our reality. So keep your dreams alive. The reality here is a spotted dove that has slightly modified its notes to sound like a barbet. Hope he isn’t trying to woo a barbet girl in case there is one around.

Too much of rains definitely carry lots of inconvenience. It isn’t good for the crop. Not good for old houses either. They get more cracks. More plaster and paint gets peeled off to turn walls and yards mossy. The leeches crawl in abundance. Tiny frog scatter like tiny dumplings from your path as you move around. You have to be careful not to trample too many and add to your quota of sins here on earth. But then tiny frogs are visible at least. We hardly can take enough caution not to trample upon ants. They are too small. In that case, I realize we are standing on our own mounds of sins. That’s why it’s so important to lead a meaningful life because it comes at the cost of so many little sins. Coming to the issue of too much of rains, the bricks in the yard cave in. Too much of rain isn’t good for the snakes either. Their holes get filled up and they crawl out to claim residency in houses, especially the unkempt yards of lazy bachelors.

The old country house may have more cracks giving me a little frown of discomfort. But that is very easily overpowered by a smile caused by the vastly improved shape of the chapattis. They look more presentable, and more importantly are nicely digestible. Graying men in their forties need to be bothered more about stomach and less about tongue. Taste is a secondary take off.   

A couple of dozen black kites glide down in circles over the village skies. The black kite is a carnivorous scavenger. They basically fly over the Ghazipur area in New Delhi. There they are a common sight, scavenging muddy trash from the mountainous garbage dump site and the banks of the stinking rivers of sewage. They kind of symbolize the urban slums and sleaze. They are wrongly named, I suppose. The black kite is dark brown in color. But it does a yeomen help to the municipal cleaners as the scavenging raptor, with its white-speckled feathers, deep-set eyes and a sharply curved beak, does a nice clean job of the leftovers of urban table of carousel and craze. They are opportunistic hunters who just love to scavenge. Most of their time is spent in gliding and soaring among the thermals looking for food.

So here they float with their buoyant flight, gliding effortlessly, diving, uplifting and changing directions with perfect ease, just a few seconds of flapping of wings and minutes long glide. You have to be very stable to spot the hunt below on the ground. Once the radar catches the prey, the raptors swoop down with legs lowered, snatching the garbage, fish, household refuse or carrion. In the British military slang they are known as the shite-hawk. They are known to be very opportunist hunters. The lazy fliers with big motives are attracted to fires and smoke because they know that lots of prey would be running to escape the fire. According to the native Australian beliefs, the kites are witty enough to spread fires. They pick up burning twigs and drop them among the bushes to start a fire so that there is a stampede of little rodents running away from the burning house. That’s a pretty criminal act even as per the laws of raw nature. It smells of human conspiracy. In the crowded Indian cities, they soar in thermals in large numbers and sometimes even swoop down and snatch pizzas from human hands. They have become taste conscious in human company, I think.

Black kites hovering in the village skies is not a usual sight. I haven’t seen many. Well, it proves the scale of changing times. Even the villages have lots of garbage dumped at many sites these days. So may be these are the colonizer kites who have left the congested Delhi skies and are migrating to seek fresher, sorry filthier, pastures. In any case, birds always look better, even if they are hawkish, scavenging raptors. The sky looks healthy with their winged ruffles in its ribs. And more birds, of any sort, give a feeling that not everything is lost yet.

One of the kittens has turned very lazy, the one who loves sleeping on the doormat in the verandah. The extrovert spends time in the barn. They are turning into handsome lads. The extrovert one takes the pain to hunt beyond the walls and enjoys the freedom. The lazy one is going to realize its mistake once the time for wooing ladies comes. Girl cats won’t give him too much of attention. When he isn’t sleeping, he is staring at me, his eyes pleading to fill the bowl once more. It’s very irritating. If the stomach is full by default, thanks to the bowl, why would one take the trouble of learning to hunt? A boy cat that doesn’t hunt rats in its adolescence hardly stands a chance to hunt the love of a cat girl after coming of age. It’s committing a fatal mistake, I tell you.   

The dining table in the verandah is piled high with the things that I need now and then. That’s pretty convenient. I usually take out my plate in the unkempt yard and eat among the flowers, and in the company of the snakes hidden somewhere nearby. With things piled high on it, the dining table won’t complain of idleness. I keep a corner free to set my laptop there and write. The switchboard just above my head has an abandoned fan regulator whose speed knob has come off, leaving a circular opening into the rectangular plastic case. It’s the favorite house of fun for the lizards and stinging yellow wasps. The lizards have fun but then they get burn also. I have found skeletons of them inside. Was it electrocution or they love this site to go dying during their last days, I am not sure. As of now the lizards have abandoned their tenancy on the property. It’s now leased to the yellow stinging wasps. No problem with that. Just that my head is direct in the line of their aerial route as they land home. A crash-landing would mean a painful fire on my face. We humans carry a lot of caution in our genes. Most of this is unnecessary fear that we pride ourselves with being cautious. I am no different. I plug the opening with a piece of clothing. The house is shut. They then peep across the narrow air slits, craning out their necks, probably staring at me, taking a vow to take revenge. I am not yet ready to allow a house of dead wasps right over my head. Their insect souls may interfere my chain of thoughts while writing, so I look for alternatives. I sprinkle a very mild dose of mosquito repellent, just enough to give them cough perhaps, wear my helmet, drape my chador around like an Afghan woman and take out the cloth. They troop out hurriedly, buzz around angrily like anyone who has been forcibly evicted from his house. They are justified in their anger. They don’t carry its remnants like we humans. They will soon forget and make a nice nest somewhere else. It’s always easy to start anew with unbruised feelings.

Most of us are working harder than ever, even earning more than ever, with far less joy and happiness in life. Well, working for survival is necessary. We have to accept that. We aren’t unhappy because we are forced to do many things against our will. We are unhappy because we haven’t explored our Ikigai, the spring source of doing small things that makes us happy. Do big things for a living but never miss small things for your own inner smile. All of us have that little corner of aesthetics in us. Plant roses in that. It will give you unconditional smile. It can be anything that makes you feel at ease, that releases the tension, that calms your nerves. Explore your Ikigai.  Even now it’s lying just near you, not visible because it’s too small. We have been conditioned to prioritize the big things in life. Nothing wrong with that. But don’t miss the little flowers around your feet as you move on your path. Bend down and pick out you little wild flower. Nurture a hobby that has nothing to do your professional life. Think big time with your mind and love little things in your heart. Like I earn ‘joy’ primarily from my writing. Had I been writing for money, I would have stopped long time ago. It’s my Ikigai, what is yours?

The remnants of a musty noon

 If we believe we have the capacity to do what we are supposed to do, then there is no reason to believe in the higher powers supposedly guiding our way. But the question is, do we really know what we are supposed to do. All choices and decisions stand on the verge of either falling this way or that. Faith, at some point, is bound to have its final say. Faith is pretty free flying. Tether it to reason and logic, it hides immediately behind the dark clouds. It’s not there to be tamed by the chains of reason. It is good to put reason at the forefront of your skills like the steely jaws of a mighty earthmover. That’s a convenience, a skill to lead life on a day to day basis. Reason is a very good servant. Faith but is the master that guides the overall operation of life. By faith I don’t just mean faith in the Gods over there in the sky vaults. It primarily comprises our faith in ourselves, in our soul’s intimacy with the possibilities of joy, an urge to lead a meaningful life. Extraterrestrial faith is a mere supplement to our inherent faith in ourselves. Isn’t it faith in ourselves that we use all the reasons and logic to not only survive but also strive to be happy and joyful? In fact, we hatch ‘reasons’ to nurture our ‘faith’. Never lose your faith. It’s like losing what and who you are.  

**

Rains and more rains. Mold in the pickle jar. White coral mushroom on the rotting plank. Potatoes with spikey sprouts. Baby frogs everywhere. Lots of nests in the trees and plants. The sky laden with flying insects. Well-fed serpents and croaky long-limbed toads. Thickly overgrown trees and promiscuous creepers. The air with a musty smell. The railings more rusty. The sky just a cloudy canvas. Hot teas and spicy pakoras. Smiles. Gossips. Love and loss in the season of moss. Well-bathed caravan looking to sneak in and take a shelter in the autumnal camp. Well, it has been too damp. Welcome now the sunny lamp.

**

Many situations of life turn meaningful, and hence bearable, the moment we accept our share, our part in shaping the things as they stand.

**

Avoid the things that cost you your smile and laughter. It will never be a loss in the long term, I can assure you. Avoid also the things that fetch you an instant grimace. That's an instant gain. So start now with a smile!

**

For the angels to stay relevant, there have to be demons. Well, that's too big a price for goodness. Let there be no demons, even if that means all angels losing their status and turn ordinary entities. Just a pleasant commonness! Why go for the extraordinary? Especially when the cost is too high, like having to do with demons just to have angels around.

**

If you can't avoid pride altogether, have principled pride. It's a bit better than the unreined one. The latter is a sort of unsheathed sword. There is an equal risk of injury to both the beholder and the people around. Principled pride is at least a sheathed sword. It carries lesser risk. And what is this principled pride? It's the pride inside a fencing of certain principles that we won't compromise come what may.

**

The first provisional Indian government in exile was formed by Mahendra Pratap Singh in Afghanistan in 1915. He stayed in exile for 35 years, having taken a vow never to step on the British-occupied Indian soil. He returned a happy man post 1947. Surprisingly he was an educated Jat. Seems there is more to Jats beyond the JAT (just animal type) syndrome!

The remains of a sunny morning

 An absolutely bright sunny September morning, all fresh and breezy! The main advantage of having more than enough rains is that the sky is extra blue, being washed of our sins, i.e., pollutants. There is a silvery spray of scattered fluffy clouds floating merrily across the blue playground. The lush green leaves shine with a happy gloss under the sun. The insects and butterflies seem gone berserk with joy as they claim the best of the short time they have on earth. The birds are pretty vocal too about their agreement about the good weather elements for the day.

Potatoes in the kitchen of a bachelor staying alone have a particular advantage. They get enough time and space to enhance their status and sprout soot and sapling in order to hurriedly change their status from the meek eatables to live plants. A potato is all inclusive in growth. It sprouts from all angles, seems like it has the procreative urge all across its body. Isn’t it an expression of the instinct of expansion in the universe? There is enough moisture in the rain-lashed air, so the potatoes have decided to be plants and avoid the status of getting piteously frying in the boiling pan.

Potter’s wasp also carries certain advantages of occupying a bachelor middle-aged writer’s house. It has more options to choose its clay house location. The scooty hasn’t been used for more than a fortnight. So the nice rubber on the handle grip grabs the wasp’s fancy. The grip has a clayey addition now. A house is in making at a furtive pace. The wasp is really busy, doesn’t get tired. It won’t lose focus and energy till the final brick is laid. I feel inspired by its diligence for the cause. Well, I decide not to be a spoilsport at the moment. But if I need the vehicle very urgently, the wasp will have to ungrip its grip on the scooty grip. If I find myself in too lenient a mood, I may decide to put the old bike rusting in the barn into order and let the wasp fulfill its tenancy. There is always choice and scope for kindness.

The peeping crow is still at its favorite pole. But then it’s a bright sunny day. It will have to pay with a lot of sweat for its fun. I hope it doesn’t starve itself to death in lieu of its inter-species addiction.

Saw an 8-10 inches long krait snakelet sneaking into the wildly unkempt yard. It sneaked in through the space under the lower grills. Despite my stomping of feet, it managed to occupy the property. I think we get more scared in dreams than in real life. I woke up with palpitations. It was a dream guys. But given the condition of my yard, the reality of a snake sneaking in is far bigger than the dream. Well, if it has really managed to come in, I don’t worry too much. The kittens are there. It’s an equal match in size and age, a kind of fair play. If they win, they learn successful hunting. If the snake wins, it learns the basics of stout defense. All this is same to Mother Nature. By the way, a krait couple seems to have managed a very successful hatching season. Two little ones have been found in a neighbor’s house. Including the one in my dream makes it three. The bigger one that we killed in the yard was probably the Ma or Pa snake. That’s better to avoid further proliferation of the species. Well, unless the remaining one doesn’t turn out too romantic and woos a partner soon.  

A farmer accosts me over the gate as I am suspiciously looking around the place where the dream-snake sneaked in.

‘I need to take your advice and opinion on a very important issue,’ he says.

I know he is the mini-celebrity of the village. Even if he has to buy a needle, he has to ask at least 15 people on the issue. No problem in that, one should consult others. The only problem is that he has never abided by anyone’s inputs, without exception. He will do his own stuff later. It rubs a lot of salt on the people’s ego. Probably, he asks others only with only as much intent as to rule out those points at least. The rule of rejection, I suppose. He basically asks people what not to do, but people won’t understand. I am also not much interested in his new problem, so I have to dodge him.

‘Just now a big black snake has sneaked into the flower bed. First, of all please come inside and help in removing this problem. Yours we can discuss later,’ I reply.

Of course, he leaves the scene without his one more ‘what-not-to-do’ thing.

Kalla is raven black with equally white teeth and eyes. His smile is infectious. He is thin and looks like an undernourished long-distance athlete. He smiles and greets as I brush my teeth standing in front of the yard gate. He moves with ease, not much concerned with life. He started as a truck helper to get promoted to a full driver. There is prohibition in Bihar and he found simple provisions for his truck too boring. His truck would then carry cartons of wine into the forbidden state. A few sorties are very successful in such matters. So he had extra money to spend. In great spirits, he joined a group of trampish happy-go-lucky group of youngsters going to Manali for drinking and carousel. During the bus ride, he got the moment of his life for which he can afford a contended smile till his last breath. His co-passenger on the seat was a backpacker from the far away fairy lands. She was as white was he was glossy black. She found Kalla too cute and innocent with his big white eyes and innocent, shy grin. The bumpy ride dozed her off into a sleep. The best travelers are those who make the most of what they get on the path. They don’t crib about the lack of it. She too was resourceful and to extend the comfort of her sleep, she slid down onto his lap and slept peacefully for hours. Kalla felt so much obliged and honored that he absorbed all the shocks of bumpy ride but didn’t move an inch lest she got awake. Ogling at the angel, he just sat through the hours-long journey. As they say, all things come to an end. The journey got completed. He had even missed his tea snack as the bus stopped by a roadside eating point, his friends winking and urging him to eat something. He but flatly denied through roll of eyes—he couldn’t afford to shake even his head in denial, risking waking up the sleeping angel—and looked the other way. At the destination, the tourist smiled at him, hugged in fact, shook his hand and moved away with perfect ease without even looking back once. What a detachment from worldly matters. ‘How can you move away like this, as if you don’t even know me, while every cell in my body is yours now!?’ Kalla was left wondering. Well, that was the moment of his life, all possible because he had extra bucks from ferrying illicit liquor to Bihar. Then the moment of paying back for fun arrived, as it inevitably arrives. He was caught in Bihar and put into jail. Now, Bihar being too far, his farmer father said the crops are in urgent need his presence here. ‘How can I go there and spend weeks to get him bailed out. Someone has told me that the food is nice in the jail there, so it shouldn’t be a big problem,’ he wasn’t too bothered about the situation. So Kalla enjoyed the Bihar trip for a good six months. That was when his father had enough time; his duties in the fields allowed him some spare weeks to go visiting Bihar and bail out his son.

As I spit out the toothbrush foam, a farmer neighbor is spitting out the choicest expletives on his buffalo, o sorry on his wife. Most probably, she has had extra(marital) fun instead of breakfast this morning. The farmer is around 40 and she is in her early thirties.

Years back when he was freshly married, he almost came running to me as I glumly wandered about the village pond looking at the ducks.

‘What fun do you derive out of this boring duck watching? The real fun is in getting married. A wife is real fun!’ he gesticulated.

‘Good that your wife is very happy with you,’ I smiled.

‘She has every reason to be happy. I give her pleasure almost all the time!’ he turned reddish, probably recalling some memories.

‘Well, too much of everything isn’t recommended. Pleasure arrives with pain also,’ I cautioned.

He was disappointed a bit. ‘You are almost a Babaji, what do you even know about a ‘Wife’?’ he laughed. Both of us laughed in fact.

Years passed. He had two kids and his ability, urge or intent, or all of them together, grayed like the pace of his oxen slackened while pulling the cart. But his wife had the same old expectations from her carter. This gap was easily fulfilled by young and upcoming carters, who are on a look out for such gaps in matrimonies in the neighborhood. The husband was of course wounded to begin with, so he thrashed his wife. But even an oxen won’t increase its pace beyond a point after getting whiplashed. Acceptance is the biggest tool to lead a tolerable life. He spared his hands extra effort in whiplashing his wife after beating the bull and started giving extra effort to his tongues through abuses. Well, that was pretty ok with the wife as well. So here he was doing the same after her latest round of extra(marital) fun.

The big rascal alpha male monkey carries the best pink color on its bum in the world. It comes walking over the yard fence followed by three females all carrying little ones on their backs. The rascal has been very busy in adding to his progenies like Chengez Khan did centuries ago. It goes with uncaring majesty. It has seen the toothbrush in my hand is no match for its fangs, which it bares as a warning not to mess up with his harem as it trains over the wall. Arrogantly it shakes a few branches as a further warning. Bare-handed, or even with a toothbrush, it’s too much for a human.

It remembers our last encounter. I had disturbed the train of his harem on the terrace. The ladies screeched away in horror. He was very much offended as the king of panicked queens. I had a very thin six-foot long bamboo stick. A flimsy weapon I tell you. Its ends were split and I doubt whether even the kitten will mind too much if I strike it with full force. Thank God, the monkey can’t see through the chink in the armor. To him, it is a weapon and he gauzes its lethality by the striking distance, not the quality of its strike. It bared its fangs and mocked attacks from a distance of 8 feet, pacifying its vanity that I am not all afraid of you. I had to add to my weaponry by picking a full brick and threaten a strike in full force. Now that too was a mock attempt, just like a monkey feigns fierceness. Who will throw a full brick with full force on one’s terrace? It will surely miss the monkey and will do more harm to the roof without even ruffling a single hair on the rascal. Again, good that they can’t see through these things and take things just literally on the face value. We have some extra things that we take in spirit. Well, we just have bigger brains, nothing else.

It remained on the front till it saw that the Mamas of his children are safely on a neighbor’s roof and are gleefully looking at the interesting fight from a safe distance. He then showed me his shameless pink bum, looking back once more as if to say ‘I will see you some other day’ and ran away. The next day, I found the terrace messier than before. I have a doubt that he indeed remembered the fight and performed certain extra criminalities on the way back in the evening. They keep the route by the way; come whatever I may do to divert the trail route.

Forgot to tell you, the sturdiest of the street dog was heard howling in pain one afternoon. People ran to find out the big rascal holding the panicked dog by ears and slapping it profusely. Since the dog is a favorite of many drunkard farmers, the monkey king has lot many more enemies now. During their customary brawls in the evenings, when they routinely get sloshed up and need an object to vent out their fury, they have now taken up the fat monkey as the common enemy. The maddest words still do the rounds in the streets but they are less offensive because they are targeted at the monkey.

‘We will keep it chained and make him drink wine only till he turns well-behaved like us,’ one of them gave the expert opinion, which was agreed only to the extent that of course the monkey would be sloshed first but later on would be thrashed for all the sins till it learns to hold human feet and plead for mercy.

It’s impossible to find a well-behaved monkey. They form the foundation of all the misbehaviors that we are engaged in as humans, destroying planet, disturbing the laws of nature. What they do on a small scale in a yard, we do at the bigger scale only. There is no qualitative difference, just there is quantitative difference. That’s why the rhesus monkey loves staying among humans. Out in forests, it gets bored to death.

They pry open the lids of rooftop water tanks and dive in and come out sleek and all brushed up to perfection. They get disgusted with any type of orderliness around. They have to put it into disorder as per the laws of entropy that says the cosmic disorderliness is ever on the increase. So they are the cosmic agents of entropy in fact. The trees have suffered. They just jump from rooftops into the canopies and commit as much damage as possible by flailing their limbs in all directions. Poor trees! A few of them just love rope walking, sorry wire walking. Many a houses go powerless at nights given the extra wire-walking fun by the monkeys. They cannot bear the ignominy of seeing a tree branch bearing the burden of a nest. They have to come to the trees’ aid at any cost and free the rent holding. A few of them have too much of sex in their mind like humans do. They would just walk in all bonhomie on the parapet walls all solemnly, for a break, and suddenly one idiot rides the haunches of the one in the front, irrespective of the gender of the carrier, and mocks licentious movements that can embarrass even the most shameless ones among the farmers.

I just hope that the kittens are spared monkey slaps. That would be too much for them. The other day, it was partially cloudy. They are becoming lazy and over-dependent on milk. Everybody gets spoilt by the free facilities. Who wants to stretch one’s limbs if there isn’t too much urgency for the same? They are no exception. They just wait and wait and wait for the bowl to get its contents. They have stopped going out into the bushes outside the yard to learn hunting. All day they just lie down comfortably and sleep. Well, to me a cat that doesn’t hunt is no cat. So I decide to teach them a lesson in attention and patience, the necessary requisites for hunting.

They keep on observing my every movement, waiting for that particular one that may fill the bowl in the corner. It’s very irritating, I tell you. This is plain greed and puts me off. Grumbling I fill the bowl but I put it in the open as a fine drizzle has just started. Driven by their greed, they run to lop up as much as possible. A cat abhors getting wet. She hates rains even more than the dogs. The misty drizzle turned to a rain and they had to run into the verandah, leaving the bowl still three quarter full. A torture, definitely, to them. So the fear of getting wet is more than the love for milk. New observation. The skies are with me. The rain turns into a storm. It rains cats and mouse to make the cats learn the lesson in patience. So huddled in a corner they stared at the bowl without batting an eyelid. Concentration and patience are good for hunting. I am happy. It keeps on raining for an hour. The bowl is full as a fruit of their patience. They have braved the storm, thunder and lightning and didn’t go hiding like earlier. They run out happily as the clouds take leave off the scene. Well, sometimes even patience doesn’t carry a sweet fruit as we expect. Their patience has carried a lot of water in the bowl. They lop up a few sips and move away making weird faces. I get my revenge for their insolence and laziness.