A slow walk with a goatherd

 

There is still some space left for their goats where the farmers won’t harass them. It’s a Tsunami of ‘development’ propelled by the parasitical growth in the Delhi NCR. There are more and more roads and industries planned to relieve Delhi of the unbearable urban pressure. The agricultural farms are rapidly changing into industrial plots; district roads into national highways and expressways; and the dusty farm-side cart tracks of yore are now tarred single-lane connectivity. It’s a business boom; the air is buzzing with the talk of money. The value of agricultural land is going up to reach crores of rupees per acre. There are bigger cars, swankier houses, louder talks and mountainous pride and prejudices. The countryside is shifting to a completely new shape.

There are last traces of wilderness among this progressive clang and clatter. Two canals go side by side, taking easy turns, giving each other a rippling company. Their embankments have almost a free growth. The forty-feet dividing bund between them is covered with pampas grass, weeds, bushes and grasses. Walking on a thin foot-trail running across this growth gives you the feel of serenading in a peaceful forest. Tall growth on the outer bunds provides you a natural wall to nurture your moments of solitude. You hear the sound of tractors but you cannot see them, hence you feel miles away from the humanity’s banging and clanging ways.

He is a man in mid-sixties; his companion a lad of maybe twenty. They have a combined goatherd of fifty goats. They are Balmikis. Their day starts around eleven when they set out with their goats on the unclaimed, free patch of grassy ribbon between the canals. Their goats can freely graze here. They cannot enter the cropped fields on both sides, so it avoids kicks and abuses by the angry farmers. There is fresh water and plenty of grass for the goats.

The old man is clad in shabby all whites. He looks full of wisdom and contentment with his thick snow-white beard on a weather-beaten dark face. They talk, walk, lie down and even stay silent through the day. The bigger world, though not too far in physical distance, is far-far away. They aren’t into calculations and numbers. ‘How many goats do you have?’ I ask. ‘Well, this is all we have. Maybe a few are behind the bushes,’ the elderly man introduces his assets. ‘How do you come to know which goat belongs to either of you?’ I’m carrying the inertia of ownership of property from the village. ‘The goats know better. They all look the same. But once they reach home, they are smart enough to segregate and walk into their respective homes. There is never any confusion. They know better,’ he shares the goatee basics of wisdom.

Both groups have a bull each and the patriarchs are on good terms with each other, knowing that there is nothing to fight about. Things are clearly sorted with a natural understanding.

They sell some of the grown-up goats whenever budgetary requirements arise. The goats graze and contentedly live; the owners also manage a small slice of life almost on the same level of hierarchy. ‘A good goat sells for ten thousand rupees,’ he tells the basics of their economy.

He hasn’t got his old-age pension even though he is eligible for it for the last five years at least. He has adhar card, voter card and ration card but the crucial age proof is missing. The age on the mentioned documents isn’t sufficient to validate his pension entitlement. Those who have attended school can present a registered proof from the school’s past records. Even then it’s a tough job and one has to bribe a few months pension to avail the right. Those who haven’t got a school leaving certificate and a matric mark sheet have the option of getting an age certificate from the civil hospital. There the doctors believe in your youth. They won’t believe you are sixty till you are seventy.

He is happy because he doesn’t believe that even he can get a pension. An amount of 3000 rupees/month can surely help him a lot at this stage of life. ‘You have already lost 180000 rupees of pension money during the last five years since you turned eligible for it,’ I bring hard commerce and economics in this little slice of solitude. I myself feel the pinch of his loss. But he seems unaffected because he doesn’t expect it at all.

He is landless, illiterate, unskilled, and very low in the so-called caste hierarchy. From the pit of his existence it’s impossible to look high and think of pension. Life itself is such a big loss right from the beginning, so you don’t care about smaller losses. ‘How much money I will lose if I live to be hundred?’ he asks. I calculate the sum and give him the figure. It’s a big sum in lakhs. ‘And you lose all this because you cannot arrange a bribe of 10,000 rupees,’ I tell him the reason for his loss. ‘And who would think of pension if had 10,000 rupees to fill their pockets!’ he laughs loudly. I’m ashamed of my calculative ways. Now it dawns upon me that he is happy in his small world, where he has some little rights of free grass on a ribbon of wilderness. Any additional information from calculating and educated people will disturb his peaceful world. At least the grass is still free. Let’s see how and when even this thin ribbon of free wilderness vanishes, making him possibly the last goatherd in this tiny world.

The Unknowable

 Talking about the ultimate reality, Osho said it’s that stage in the journey of a seeker when after knowing everything still more remains to be known. Material science tried to crack the code and frantically searched for the fundamental particle that cannot be further divided. If ever they arrive at the primary material constituent, they can claim to know all and everything. There won’t be any unknowable. But as they have found, there is no fundamental entity. All the previously assumed smallest entities kept on subdividing, finally merging into the endless depths where everything merged into nothingness, leaving them clueless where to spot the primary constituent. All this merges into the never-ending spools of energy, sparks, vibrations and frequencies. It’s a screen where even our thoughts, emotions and feelings—which itself is a movement of subtle energies as substantial as the gross manifestations of energy movement on the visible level—can project our own creations. And creations of physical sciences have created many means of convenience for us.

I would even deter myself from calling it maya, the illusion, because we can call something illusion only in relation to something permanent. There is hardly any permanent entity, apart from the unknowable rule of the rules which says the first part of the statement.

If there is no ultimate destination, one may ask, then why should one go on a quest to know, realize or feel the secrets beyond the boundaries of our ordinary sense perception. If all remains to be known after knowing everything then why take the path. Why this quest? In my opinion, it’s our humble attempt at upgradation. Consider for example, the routine life of someone defined by the basic driving forces of sense perception, the life set on the most basic, littlest stage where basic instincts of fear, greed, anger, jealousy and hate confine life into a tiny ghetto which is very engaging. This is no moral judgment against anyone who sets up life in a tiny cell. It’s never about morality or immorality or a higher life or lower life. In my opinion, it’s about the actualization of the potential. All are free to choose. If one can be joyful in the little so called prison, then what is the problem? Why then hatch a bigger one?

Coming to the life at the most rudimentary level, I however take it as a life spent in a tiny cell, its boundaries defined by self-set parameters, majority of them simply adopted in the name of conventions and prevalent beliefs. Where is the creator, the godly faculty with us, if we spend life merely as a product, as a creation? The problem with spending life in a little hovel is that there is hardly any possibility of becoming one’s best version. One doesn’t become a creator. The things that pile up in the congested space narrow down the space further. The grip of the prison turns to literally enslavement. As one sees things piled so precariously overhead in such a narrow space, we get further scared of its fall. We crib because we hardly have the space to move.

Doesn’t a prisoner feel very relaxed, if he is let out from the cellar and allowed to go into the yard outside? He feels relaxed. He will feel still better if put in a spacious garden, and still better in open spaces. Same is the case with us. We want to evolve, to liberate, to move freely, to feel relaxed, a sum and summary of that nagging pinch of restlessness that always reminds us that something is missing in life. Under the open skies and the vision set on the distant horizon, we get opportunity to create, the real destiny of mankind in this avatar—not in relation to anything in particular but freely as per our benchmarks. We know that there is still something beyond the horizon—and the horizon will keep shifting as long as we keep on moving in our quest—but we don’t feel imprisoned because there is no fixed boundary. The limitation of our vision to make us see till the horizon doesn’t create a fixed boundary. One can move on and on and be part of a larger and larger reality. This is what I call creation, the basic steps towards liberation. Liberation is not about reaching the boundary, the final destination, because in that case one will still be a prisoner with the ultimate wall blocking the view. Liberation is in moving towards an ever-broadening horizon. Out of the open possibility, we change the congested cell into an open panorama where the unknown doesn’t imprison, but keeps on beckoning us through a see through walk-able horizon in the distance.

I don’t differentiate too much between knowing and awareness. Knowing is the seed that sprouts the fruits of awareness. Knowing is the beginning of awareness. The awareness of more and more leads to the realization of something beyond even knowing and awareness. Call it Samadhi, moksha or liberation. The enlightened ones whom we revere are not the ones who have cracked the code. Nobody can. The honest ones will accept, the businessmen types will create more wordiness to drown the primary question within itself and earn some more respect from the followers. The revered ones are the ones who created the most. Who walked to the distant most horizons, who walked to the brink of liberation and realized that come whatever may, it’s the same circle beginning and ending at the same point. One spreads and spreads the awareness to finally realize the point. Awareness spreads so much to be sucked into a point. Realisation is all awareness condensed into a point. A divine sublimation. This is the creation of the little seat of godliness. They inspire, they guide, they heal, they do most of the things we believe them to be capable of, but beyond that all remains still as much unknowable as before.

One more drop of sweetness in a bitter world

 Scorching heat... spring died...flowers withered. But life has to continue till flowers bloom once again. With temperature around 40 and flowers gone, these honeybees look like desert travellers busy around an oasis. Water level in the tiny vessel was low, so many of them slipped down the edges while attempting to take tiny swigs of water. One can use love, care and help in any corner of the world. It polishes the aesthetics of humanity. A little practice to be more human. Goodness is qualitative in nature. It doesn't need quantity to get certified as a good deed. Main thing is one's emotion. So here I take my quantum jump in evolution by filling the bucket to the brim so that these little thirsty visitors safely perch on the upper edge and drink water without risking their lives. They get water, I become more aware of the godliness in me. Profit both ways. Vaah, what a fruitful day!

An interesting phase in Indian politics

 

The power equation has a very common thread among the power aspirations—you want to be the real controller of affairs; you have an impulse against sharing it with centralization-diluting people, groups and institutions. There is hardly any chance to come across a politician who doesn’t want all-out power in his own hands. The only deciding factor is to what extent he can manage it. So we can safely say that all politicians are basically cult aspirants. From this point, Modi is justified in trying to rise above his own party and the parent organization, the RSS. But the trends after two phases of parliamentary elections give rise to a pertinent question: Is cult politics (which can be safely called electoral autocracy) feasible in India?  

To seek answer to this question, we have to first find out where it’s practical and effective to operate the politics of cult. Of course the communist countries come very close to set up a system that easily digests the mythical cult of an individual because systematically the entire society is cut in the same fabric, doing away with socio-economic and religious diversities. In a beautifully manicured field, it’s very easy for one sturdy sunflower to stand in the middle and function as the all-go point of authority. It is also possible in the mono-religious, theocratic societies, predominantly Muslim countries for example. There is a firm, homogenous hold of faith over the people and in this evenly leveled society an individual can easily rise above and rule over the rest.   

However, cult formation in a massively varied society like India is a big challenge. There are so many regional disparities, economic variations, caste categories and religions. It’s an exciting jungle of different plants and trees having varying heights. How far you will go to be at the same height from all of them? You cannot serve as a common denominator to all of them as a cult figure unless you use brute force or do something as drastic as changing the constitution itself, both of which are virtually impossibilities in the Indian set up. There are so many centrifugal forces always pulling the power away from the center. You can have some moments of a total grasp but things will slip out of hand because India is an exotic Pandora box. And that’s where the uniqueness of this great country lies. We love our freedom of not being perfect. We are a bouquet of colors which is so appealing to this rapidly mono-coloring world. We are an exotic chaos which is far more interesting than any order. We have earned our freedom after centuries of subjugation and we would very much like to keep enjoying the spirit of freedom including the freedom of expression.  

You simply cannot rise above history by belittling past greats like Gandhi and Nehru. They had their own cult following but it was showered upon them by the people willingly and out of respect and affection. It wasn’t a product of their cult-formation direct endeavor. It was just an outcome of their sincere efforts for the welfare of their motherland.   

How big and effective a cult you can erect in such a diversified society as India depends on your personal capacity. And Modi has been the most effective and capable person since Nehru and Indira to rise above the hordes of power-diluting factors and rule as a supreme authority. Beyond judgments, I see it as a mark of his capabilities, his brilliant oratory and the spirit of keeping an unrelenting hold on all those around him. But in such a tight-gripped system in a democracy, there will always be tension among those whose powers have been diluted. They will look up to you with anxiety because you are keeping their loyalty by force. To maintain an unchallenged authority as the central figure it requires frequent purges like in communist and theocratic countries. But it isn’t possible to do so in its direct form in a democracy and that too the largest democracy which is always under the scanning radar of the world because what happens here has a direct bearing on the global democratic machinery. Yes the indirect tools of intimidation like ED, CBI, IT and other authorities work to an extent by keeping the opponents (both within and outside) cut down to a manageable size. But it is a deterrent only. You can just control your opponents till a point, not do away with them altogether.

One can feel a strong undercurrent of change in India after the two phases of elections. There is oversaturation with the brand Modi in people’s psyche. If you hear Modi-Modi one billion times, of course there will be a Modi fatigue. You lose that charm over people’s fancying spirits.

I think almost hundred percent media control is counterproductive. It discards the basic principle of safety valve. Freshness and newness are the basic elements of news that keep people glued to the news channels. The electronic media is so saturated with Modi narrative that it turned very boring for the common masses. Of course the diehard zealots would love watching it but they number very less. Most of the people would at the most like a leader instead of turning blind followers.

In the absence of a safety valve type dissenting outlet in the mainstream media, the journalists and critics who had been kicked out of the mainstream media platforms found their outlets through numerous social media platforms including YouTube channels, which have been highly effective in presenting a different aspect of the situation. People liked these interesting, discordant voices for their varying opinions. They had the element of fresh news. No wonder these platforms will have a decisive role in the current elections. Cheap internet plans allow the people to stay glued to their social media choices, who is even bothered about the television.

In his place I would have kept the ratio of 75:25 in the mainstream media—75 percent my narrative and 25 percent for the opposing voices. It would have acted like a safety valve and so many tiny punctures in the tube won’t have surfaced in the form of mushrooming social media channels. Of course Modi government has its own mushroom sprouts in social media as well but their content has been a copy of what people see on the television, so that also lost interest and hence viewership.

All in all it will be a very interesting election during the next phases and Modi, the master he is of our emotions, will of course try to raise a blizzard, trying to flare passion and bring out the critically opinioned and imbalanced persona in us and flock after his cult. How much he will succeed is to be seen.        

 

How much attention should I give her?

 A small seed of thought sprouts a prickly thicket after reading Saint Gibran's little story "At the Fair".

How much attention a man is supposed to give to a woman to score good in her books? If he outrightly goes overboard in his affection and attention, she condemns him as unmannerly, lecherous and uncouth. Ignore her, she curses him as a bore, and in worst case scenario even impotent. Now how much of lukewarm attention is sufficient to a woman? Well, even an enlightened soul like Gibran failed to gauze the right proportion, what to talk of little mortals like us! Possibly it is a tug of war between complete, overblown adulation on the one hand and complete avoidance on the other. Basically it's a see saw, shifting, teasing game which pumps life into the man's pursuit and her feigned nonchalance while walking supposedly not looking but gauzing the scene from her extra sixth sense which is 100 times sharper than a direct look with normal eyes.

अबकी बार किसका वोट?

 बेचारे राहुल गांधी को तो चुनाव आयोग ने बकरी बना रखा है. वो कुछ भी मिमिया दें तो एक डंडा मारते हैं उनके सर पर और दूसरी तरफ महाशक्तिशाली बाबा को खुले सांड की तरह छोड़ दिया गया है.. वह कुछ भी रांभ दें तो चुनाव आयोग भाग के अपने ऑफिस में घुस जाता है...अब आप ही समझिए ये संस्था किसकी है..बोलना मना है...🤐सिर्फ सुनो...किसकी? जो हमेशा मन की बात करते हैं😷

हमारे परिवार ने भी बरसों से कांग्रेस मुक्त भारत का सपना देखा है। आजादी से पहले दादा जी जमींदार लीग के समर्थक हुआ करते थे, और जहां भी कांग्रेसी लोग सभा करते थे, सीधे साधे किसान लोग जो आर्य समाज के अनुयायी और जमींदार लीग के समर्थक थे, कांग्रेसियों की पिटाई करते थे। दादाजी बताते हैं कि काई बार तो डर के मारे कांग्रेसी लोग टोपी सर से उतार कर जेब में छिपा लेते थे। उसके बाद पिताजी की भी यही धारणा रही। उसके बाद हम और उसके बाद हमारे बच्चे भी इसी खानदानी राजनैतिक सिद्धांत का पालन करते रहे हैं। चार पीढ़ियों से हमने हर किसी को वोट दिया है, सिर्फ कांग्रेस को नहीं दिया है। और अब 70-80 साल के पारिवारिक राजनीतिक इतिहास के बाद एक बहुत क्रांतिकारी कदम हम उठ रहे हैं। अबकी बार कांग्रेस को वोट देंगे। हालांकी हुडा सरकार ने मेरे साथ प्रांतीय सिविल सेवा के मामले में बहुत बड़ा अत्याचार किया था, लेकिन बाद में खट्टर सरकार ने भी कसार नहीं छोड़ी। खैर व्यक्तिगत मामलों को भूलते हुए देशहित में फैसला लेते हुए यही सोचा है कि अगर मीडिया की दासता, गैर लोकतांत्रिक मनमानी, संविधान को बदलने की साजिश, व्यक्तिगत आजादी, बोलने की आजादी, पढ़े लिखे आदमी की इज्जत, घृणा मुक्त समाज की रचना करनी है तो हमारी वोटों का कांग्रेस को समर्थन देना ही बनता है। यहीं हम कर सकते हैं। बाकी ज्यादा आशा तो नहीं है, क्योंकि जिस तरह से संस्थानों को जकड़ पकड़ लिया गया है, उस हिसाब से मैं चुनाव के नतीजों में ज्यादा आशा नहीं रख रहा हूं। फिर भी..

The lecherous oldies in the countries

 

A man from our village operates a chemist shop at a village nearby. The village chemists work more as a doctor running a clinic. They diagnose, prescribe and sell the medicines. In this way they fill up a lot of blank space on the health welfare map of India. I’m having a chat with him at his shop. A man in his sixties arrives at the counter, puts down twenty rupees, looks the other way and stealthily plucks away the pills put in front of him. Not a word was exchanged, or even a look. I’m curious even though I have some clue to the episode. My friend elaborates on the matter. This man belongs to the breed of the old men whose bodies have aged but the passion remains the same in the mind. So to fill up this gap between the body and the mind they take aphrodisiac pills. My chemist friend tells me that there are about fifty such heroes in the small village. Half of them still experiment outside their matrimony and the other half dallies within their four walls, including some who have nice amorous equation with their daughters-in-law. Of the last category, they are primarily pension holders and are still the main economic pillars of the family, entitling them to amorous times with their young daughters-in-law.

An inverse equation of adoration and hate

 

My brother spent some time in the China office of their company. He finds the Chinese people the most cultured ones. Their aesthetic sense of hospitality for a visitor is outstanding, he tells me. In comparison to the indisciplined chaos in India, he finds China a well-ordered peaceful, contended society. Well, I may not agree with him completely--unless I see things firsthand--but I have a belief that such an ancient civilization that gave birth to Lao Tzu and Confucius must be having deep-rooted fundamentals appropriately aligned with progress and evolution. Anyways, that's another matter. But I believe that with political reforms, and by quitting its ever-excited quest to get more territories, China can be a trend-setting country for the common cause of global citizenship. 

He tells me that Mr. Zia is the best built man he has ever seen. Zia, a very nice gentleman, tells my brother one day, ‘Brother, all the boys in the office hate you,’ he says as a matter of fact. ‘Why?’ my brother asks. ‘Because all the girls adore you,’ the handsome Chinese clarifies.

A small-time writer's skirmish with a bull frog

 There is a little group of bull frogs who wallop in the small street drain. They retire for the night under a culvert nearby. They are too big for the rat snakes hiding in the bushes a few yards away. The bull frogs look like miniature hippos walloping in muddy waters. They are very confident even while face-to-face with the rat snakes. One day I saw a poor rat snake helplessly staring at the mud-wallopers. They even turned their backs to it. ‘We are too big for you!’ they seemed to take a jibe at it. Then one of them got out to scout our yard for a suitable winter hideout. It showed the same attitude to me that it flaunts in the face of the rat snakes. I applied water cannon to shoo it away but it stayed adamant and turned my policing act into a bathing with clean water. I stomped my feet to shake the ground around it to scare it. It but stood solid. A very brave one indeed. I then used a stick to prod at its bottom. It got angry and stood on its front legs to increase its size. ‘Hey, I’m bigger than you!’ it meant to say. Then I give a small, gentle hit at its bum and there it galloped away croaking obscenities.

The sweet old days for a man in his forties

 To have multani mitti (Fullers Earth or the Indian Healing Clay) for washing your hair means to belong to the older generation. The cosmopolitan world is beyond the reach of plain old earth. While growing up in the village, we had the singular option of washing and rubbing our hair clean with multani mitti. Now the dermatologists are approving the superb qualities of the good old multani mitti involving cooling, skin nourishing and beautifying. The desi shampoo absorbs oil and dirt. The natural cleanser is all goody-goody news for the scalp, especially the oily ones. It hydrates, prevents bacterial growth, inhibits dandruff, and removes toxic chemicals from the skin as a purifying agent. Now I realize how much science is involved in our age-old home remedies and concoctions. While I write this, I can feel Mother’s strong peasant woman’s hands giving a vigorous but considerate scrub to my scalp during childhood. But now to use multani mitti means simply to be out of fashion.

Storks in the sky

 It rained for almost a week in the middle of October, making it one of the wettest Octobers ever recorded. The slugs and earthworms got apprehensive whether it was the mythological deluge repeated. The ones that got scared too much headed for higher grounds towards the verandah from the garden. Then the sun shone very brightly and all their fears were belied. Now they had to retreat, at a great risk of being squashed under feet and picked up by the predators. I airlifted some of them and landed them home in the flower bed. It shows if you easily give into your fears, you expose yourself to an even broader range of risks and then salvation becomes a factor of someone’s sense of charity, or kindness, or pity.

What bigger proof do I need that winters aren’t too far than the sight of storks. It seems a beautiful world. A group of around thirty painted storks hovering in the village sky. They arrived flying in a V-shape pattern, did a few redesigned sorties, maybe reconnoitering the village pond. Sadly the water body isn’t free now. It’s tamed for fisheries with wire nettings cutting the free skies from the pond’s stretch. So they move on looking for some still free puddle. Wetlands are on a decline. But the sight of these Himalayan visitors freshens up my mood. And there is hope till the sky has enough free canvas for the birds to fly.

A simple man's financial management

 

Rashe is a soft giant. He owns huge strength, which is amply evident when he works as a wage laborer. He can lift huge weights but he is too cool in temperament to be agile. Once, after getting fully sloshed he fell faceward and being very relaxed and unhurried allowed his teeth to hit a brick without putting much effort against the fall. A free and relaxed fall we can term it. Now the door is open with three or four of his front teeth missing. This coupled with a slurred speech—the result of a horse kick during infancy, which jammed his jaw somewhat abnormally—makes him look and sound like a fresh species altogether. But he has a very keen sense of banking. He worked for me for a day for which I owe him 600 rupees. He hasn’t arrived to claim it even after a couple of weeks after the work assignment. He hasn’t any banking account, so all the people whom he considers to be honest are his bank. He keeps the money with them, postponing the settlement of his dues till the day he needs the money. ‘That saves the wastage of money,’ he provides me free financial consultancy.

The big man's little story

 

Petha is a huge man, standing at 6’4” and weighing in the range of 120s in kilogram unit. He grew to be a mammoth lad in the senior secondary school. The potential was spotted by one of his teachers. She passionately introduced him in the art and craft of pacifying the basic instinct. He may not have bothered about any other element of schooling but this lesson he has followed to the core of his body. He hasn’t looked back since then.

Ask him the biographical summary of the last two decades. He answers with the sincerity of a student, ‘I have simply come very handy for the women looking for greener pastures!' As you can very well imagine, there are countless episodes of his amorous passion. It involves the college-going girl of a minister in Djibouti, a very loyal secretary-cum-housekeeper-cum-mistress Fatima, a few nurses, teachers, college girls, peasant women and scores of ladies belonging to the trade of dousing desires.

Then in Ethiopia, he enticed the daughter of a prominent Sikh farmer—from whom he had taken some land on lease for coffee plantation—which earned him a jail term of two years. The African jail was brutal. He survived only because he had too much weight which got cut to a normal 75 kilogram after the prison brutalities. Now in India he keeps a well-oiled stock of afeem to qualify as a brutal bull in the art of passion. He is regular with four or five women apart from giving his own wife every reason to feel contended in matrimony.

What would happen if you are forever excited and high on adrenaline? After all, human system has limitations. It’s not solely made for copulation as people like Petha believe. So now he has high blood pressure. I recommend walks and jogging. But he has all the remedies in copulatory terms. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. One encounter with a luscious woman amounts to two kilometers of walking. By this equation, I walk several miles each day!’ he gives me the consultation talk about this new form of walking by simply taking tumbles in the bed. His mathematics is a clear winner, so I accept his point of view and silently move ahead on my customary walk in the solitude of countryside.

The costliest wine

 Shyam Sunder and helper Bijender are repairing cracks in our old house. One day they work till late in the evening and get a bonus of 150 rupees meant to buy a bottle of desi liquor, their main incentive for extra work. They leave happily with the prospects of boozed-up relaxed moments after the daylong hard work. The next day, during a break, they are sitting on a bench side by side. ‘What is the cost, you can imagine, of the single peg of the costliest whisky?’ I asked. I had recently read about it in the papers and since then loved flummoxing the liquor lovers by baring the surprising fact. Shyam Sunder, the head brick layer, took a long-long draught at a beedi for inspiration and seriously deliberated over the question for a minute. ‘There are very rich people around. It must be around 10,000 rupees for a peg,’ he reached the end of his imagination about the figure. Bijender, being his loyal helper, promptly seconded him. Then I informed them that the figure is 4 crore 70 lakh rupees for a single peg of Japanese whisky. It didn’t fit in anywhere in their scheme even in the wildest of imaginations. No wonder they took it as a joke. A PJ in fact that didn’t elicit even a tiny peal of laughter. But we have to understand that it’s a small world for them where big sums appear a joke. If not for this, how will they even melt their bones under inclement weather on construction sites for a daily wage as low as a few hundred rupees?

A rainbow at the day's tail end

 

A gloomy, lukewarm, overcast early October day at the fag end of autumnal corridor. A day on the fringe of all seasons. A disowned day with orphaned feeling. And the sky shedding a few tears, as if in mourning for better times and climes. Some drops of rain leaving just scarring dots on the sand. Then some solacing ray of hope at the time of sunset. The sun calls it off from official duties a few minutes past six. The clouds in the west thinned and orangish curtains cast a faded glow on the darkish grey stage to the east. A little piece of sky over the north-eastern horizon slightly parted to allow the light’s protagonist to raise a beacon of hope. A little arc of rainbow smiled. A rainbow at the end of a gloomy tale proclaiming that there is still hope, that all isn’t lost, that there will be a balmy day tomorrow, or the day afterwards, or still later. But come it will for sure. Then the sun dived further low beyond the faded orange curtain. The little arc of rainbow was gently wiped clean from the sky’s slate.

A beautiful sadly sweet phenomena above and the bustling world below. The India-South Africa cricket match happens to be one of the numerous happenings. The Africans score pretty comfortably in the first forty overs. The Indians then make a comeback, allowing the visitors hardly a run a ball in the slog overs. To we Indians, it means great performance by our bowlers. To the Africans, it means a poor show by their batters. Both have their own versions of reality. Where does truth lie in the equation? I think it’s there in the middle, balancing out both extremes—the Indians bowled well, but the Africans batted poorly also. Doesn’t each of them support the other for its validation? The loser helps the winner in its victory; the winner also facilitates the loser’s defeat.

The story of a stylish, modern-day canine mom

 

Bhuro is a brown and white rotund bitch in the village street. She looks replete with self-care, in complete contrast to other maternally worn out hassled female canines in the locality. She eats only warm buttered chapattis. She doesn’t give much trouble to her lungs by unnecessary barking like the rest of her ilk. I have seen many famished, worn- and worked-out female dogs due to the heavy burden of puppy rearing. But in comparison Bhuro seems a glamorous, narcissistic post-modern girl. I have never seen her attending her maternal duties. Then the secret comes out. She eats all of her newborn puppies to maintain her youth, glamor and figure. Of course there must be some very significant reason to account for her weird behavior. Mysteries of nature is all I can reckon in this regard.

Her meaning of life is in stark contrast to an old black bitch I remember from my young days. She would embarrass even the human mothers in taking care of her newborns. Once her sole surviving puppy also died. But she won’t allow anyone to take it away for burial. She kept licking and tending to the corpse for many days. Of course, love cannot stop a corpse from rotting. I shooed her away using a feigned demonic show of waving sticks, shouting angry words and stomping gestures. Then I hurriedly buried the carcass, secured the tiny grave with a big stone and many thorny boughs of keekars lest the mother in her digs out the dead from the grave. To her canine sense of motherhood I was the murderer of her puppy, and for weeks it would howl whenever she saw me. It would leave me very guilty.

There was another sweet canine mom who had such a liking for her kids that she would steal others’ puppies and rear them as her own. In comparison to these puppy-loving moms, Bhuro stands at the opposite end of earth in temperament and philosophy of life.

The political nursery

 

It was a hornet’s nest unleashed on us with the announcement of elections for the village panchayat, the village level governing body. Sarpanch elections have acquired such seriousness as to hold the entire village by throat and give it a very serious shake. The atmosphere is clouded with posters, pamphlets, banners and fliers, so many of them as we didn’t even see in parliamentary elections during our childhood. Politics is a lucrative career, in every sense of the term. It’s the biggest key to empowerment.

Most of the power aspirants have little clue about what is to be filled up in the nomination form even though these are in Hindi these days. So a big task awaits me. They appear on the edge of life, so much seriousness about the forms. God forbid if there is some mistake and it might get rejected. So they trust the bookish guy in the village. The form is almost an intimidating booklet with so many instructions and clauses. ‘It left my head spinning,’ one of them looked very sad.

I peer nervously at the form booklet. There are many pages devoted to the ongoing and past skirmishes with law: a record of petty as well as solid falling off the legal ladder. So the government of India fully understands that the contestants will have lots of FIRs, court cases and complaints against them.

But I felt further cut down to even smaller academic size the moment I reached the column for academic qualifications of the candidate. It was just one line at the end of the page, almost inconsequential. By chance the printing ink was very light here to make it even more insignificant item of little concern. So the government knows that the candidates will have just as much academic record as to fill up merely a half line at the end of a page in the form.

Sarpanch elections have acquired massive proportions. Campaigning has become unbelievably expensive. Lots of cash is also distributed among the poor voters. They even have loudspeakers mounted on E-rickshaws proclaiming the credentials of a candidate who would make it a Ramrajya with clean governance. One candidate spent one crore rupees. He did a lot of charity work as well. Many ineligible bachelors were lucky to get brides with the kindness and connections of this candidate. He took large groups of villagers for fully-sponsored pilgrimages as well. He raised a whirlwind with his tireless activities. Then his clever election committee built a narrative that he has spent each penny in his pocket and will commit suicide if he lost the elections. There was a sympathy wave and he won handsomely.           

The entire story of Rashe Ram's schooling

 

Rashe Ram went to school for four days, or just three and half to be precise. All families in the villages at least try to put their wards in the shafts of the schooling cart. Most of the yoked imps galloped to freedom without wasting too much time. They still do so in the villages but things have improved marginally in this regard. Master Sube Singh pulled little Rashe’s ears on day one. It was painful. A round of defecation on the carpet in the school verandah earned his ears to be literally pulled out on day two. Day three came with urination on the floor and a bite on the face of a fellow student, which earned him a severe shaking of his head, ruffled hair and big reprimand. Some repeat of the earlier tasks earned him a beating around mid-day on the fourth day. As he was caned, he took an impish opportunity to hit the teacher’s head with his wooden writing tablet. There was blood. He fled from the school forever. But he tried to keep his younger brothers Karne and Munna in school. It was done with a sense of inflicting torture on his siblings. They were in class five and six respectively. Bhoop would get drunk and harass the boys, plundered their lunch and eat it. It became a habit with the big-time neighborhood drunk. So Rashe, all of thirteen or fourteen, beat the liquor lover. He later beat the thinnest sloshed Raame over some issue. These are three violent acts that he committed in life. The rest is all love with three or four poor peasant women who surrender to his animalistic charms as an escapade from the hard facts of life.

Fast, faster, fastest

 

On October 1, 2022 5G services were launched in India. The most interesting marketing feature—that would inevitably see the millennials running to upgrade their network, forcing the middle-aged and the elderly to copy them later—is that a two-hour movie would be downloaded in just ten seconds. With the old 4G technology it takes seven to eight minutes. I’m not against technology but I think we have been running faster and faster to save time. With 6G we would seek to get it done in one second. Then the race would enter the echelons of nanoseconds. My only curiosity is when will we pause to enjoy the fruit of our time-saving technologies. Despite the best of our time savers, we are busier than ever. I think the race against time will finally burn us up—like a meteorite burns to nothingness as it crashes through earth’s atmosphere. And why do we run faster and faster? It’s due to our dynamic belief that found sitting, then walking, then jogging we give the impression of being backward. So still faster we have to run. We have now a vast human sprawl on this tiny planet. So running faster creates huffing-puffing avenues to keep the new load busy and engaged. But then we are heading for an explosion!

Father and Son

 

My brother Amit is a cool and composed IT professional. He has never been ambitious in the sense that we see people toppling apple carts to rise in careers and professions. A handsome six-footer he has never been too eager to shake the stage too enthusiastically to make his presence felt. At the beginning of planning a career he showed zeal for joining the Indian army and gave a serious try but things won’t work out. Then he dropped the yoke of career aspirations for some time. He took to farming on a part of our land and after finishing the tasks in the morning, he would settle down, after taking a relaxing bath, dressed very-very casually, to read newspaper under the neem tree in front of our house. Father had retired by that time and pulled the family cart with his pension money. Father would smoke and drink tea throughout the day. He still maintained his routine of leaving the house in the morning like during his office days. But now it was the little tea shop in the town where a few of his friends gathered to pass time. He would return from the town in the afternoon.

As he reached home, Father would—having failed to incite his younger son into a volcanic eruption regarding career even with almost cataclysmic fatherly outpours of care, concern and anger—greet the newspaper-reading gentleman with a question in great Krishnamurti’s style, ‘Sir, are you a retired pensioner?’ ‘No sir!’ Amit would reply with a slight embarrassment. Later on, Amit made a career in the IT sector, a bit belated though. But now is doing quite well in his job.

The common story of a common homemaker

 

Rajesh comes from a small village in a neighboring district. He learnt the most basic of education concerning reading and then decided to know about life in the living workshop itself. He worked as an apprentice to a lead acid battery maker, commuting daily to work at the town in crowded buses plying on famished roads. Discipline and diligence paid off and he evolved in profession. Now he has his own shop and sells both his own products as well as fancier brands.

His family stays in a nice little house at the town. His children go to an English medium school. Thanks to my buying a few inverter batteries from him, he is now a trustable friend. He seemed very concerned about my financially unproductive writing venture when I told him that I’m writing a book. A few months down the line, during our next meeting, after a frank discussion about the financial prospects of his battery business, he threw the ball in my court. ‘Have you completed that coppy?’ he enquired in all brotherly seriousness. To him writing, page, notepad, notebook, file, diary, book, tome everything is a simple ‘coppy’. I was clueless about this ‘coppy’. Then he picked up his dog-eared tiny pocket diary where he noted the stats of his business, mostly about the errant clients who delayed payments, and brandished it, ‘Yes coppy. You were writing a coppy na?’ So I assured him that my coppy was going well. At least it rhymes with ‘shoppy’. The latter happens to be the farmers’ version of the classical ‘Sufi’ christened upon me by my father.

The hollowness of words

 

Each word is incomplete, just an abstract, broken fragment born of thoughts arising in the mind. And the mind itself is a grainy fragment of the overall consciousness. Words are mere grains of sand. With sand grains we try to make castles, huge castles that we make in pursuance of the ever-missing meaning of life. Sand slips, we go for awkward flips. Words are mere broken arrows. How will one even win a battle with broken arrows? Words are mere sparks, temporary flashes coming out of the endless coffers of silence. They just give a little flash of light around our feet as we grope in the darkness seeking a way out of our puzzles. Words are mere temporary twinklings on the vast canvas of silence. They themselves tell their story of incompleteness, their own meaninglessness behind all the meanings ascribed to them. And the moment we listen to their story, we arrive at the moral of the final story. The moral of their story is silence: silence and emptiness behind all this noise and happening. And as I write this, huge rumblings of megh naad, the rumblings of clouds, buzz across my head. A booming cosmic storm that chucks out the outer shell of words, crushes the stones to spread the sand to go flying with the winds. The words getting sucked into a cosmic cascade and whirlpool of energy. And beyond that silence there is a void full of potential for all the noise.

Keep going!

 Why do we like to do something we really love, our Ikigai?...when we do something (like writing in my case), we do it basically to further our belief in life...to keep our belief in something meaningful in the face of all the nonsense and meaningless chaos around, to keep our hope and belief in life alive, to keep going, to have some purpose to keep going....in whatever we do, we are simply justifying our entitlement to life... it's never about breaking stars or being a success icon, that's just a secondary off-spin...the primary thing is that this 21% energy in 2% mass in the head has to spin its webs to somehow keep drawing some meaning our of the chaos within and without...we have to do something, otherwise we feel hollow, dead and lost... doing something is like the compass that at least keeps giving us some sense of direction in our journey in the cosmic sea...

And when we fail to draw a direction, or do something (big or small doesn't matter, doing is just doing... only the soulful action matters), this huge energy in the little space within us creates a storm... because then we have lost direction...like a storm in the sea...so the mind needs engagement in the NOW... otherwise it's a whirlpool of aimless scattered energy... that's why action is soo sooo important...like in Gita... it's just about action... action without the worries of results is the holiest thing...it can be tending to a flowerpot or a solitary walk or making a nuclear bomb or even sitting in silence with full awareness...that's all action..

And while we are soulfully engaged in our Ikigai, it's not that we are totally blind to a vision. It exists. Even if it's a vage outline. There is always a point drawing us towards it. It's a kind of little anchorage finally. It's an opportunity basically. You may not take it as such. But it's an opportunity to feel better than we are doing presently.

That point is waiting for you like all of us...but to reach that point you have to keep your smile and smilingly shake hand with the opportunity when you reach it...the opportunity is always at fixed points in the infinite potential field...we with our human dynamics have to reach it...so walk towards your opportunity with smile, belief and confidence... opportunity never fails us...it will always wait for us to reach it... only we fail and falter and miss our date with it... because we lose faith and smile on the way...so keep going lovely souls...keep flying and fluttering...your orchard always waits for you because it surely exists...so don't miss to complete the journey!

सबका नंबर आएगा

 इतना सन्नाटा क्यों है भाई?! डरो मत नंबर सबका आएगा। Electrolal autocracy के साइड इफेक्ट्स हैं साहब। शुरुआत बड़े ऑपोजिशन के लोगों से हुई है, लेकिन अंत में आम आदमी का भी नंबर जरूर आएगा। विश्व गुरु बनने में सबका योगदान होगा। एक साधारण आदमी का भारत को विश्व गुरु बनाने में योगदान इस तरह है: आंख मूंद कर राजा साहब की आज्ञा का पालन करना, जो कुछ हो रहा है उसको सैद्धांतिक तौर पर ठीक मान कर अपने दुख को हजम करने की आदत डालना, चाहे आपको बिना बात जेल में डाल दिया जाए तो फिर भी स्वीकार करना की गलती खुद से ही हुई होगी, राजा को देवता मानकर पूजना, ED, CBI, IT धर्म रक्षक संस्था मानकर उनका अपने द्वार पर स्वागत करना, EVM और EC को निष्पक्षता के देवी देवता मानकर घर के मंदिर में उनकी फोटो लगाना, गंगा स्नान की जगह राजनैतिक वाशिंग मशीन में सफाई करवाना और भागवत्ता प्राप्त करना, कान भाड़ मीडिया के शेरों की दहाड़ को खरगोश की तरह नम्रता, सच्ची श्रद्धा से सुनना और उनके बताए जुमलों को पवित्र ग्रन्थ मानकर उनका अनुसरण करना। इस तरह की अनेकों छोटी छोटी चीज़ें हैं जो आपको आने वाले पांच सालों में जीने के लिए तैयार कर देंगी। ऐसा करने से एक नए भारत में आपको जीने में काफी मदद मिलेगी।

The tiny remnants from the birdie world

 

Nothing is too far and isolated from the reach of all-pervading pollution. It’s the first week of November and the Delhi NCR has turned a gas chamber. Even though I’m located almost 50 km from Delhi, yet it smells as bad as in Delhi. The little serpentine trail of wilderness running between the canals is shrouded in metallic haze. The trees, birds, bushes, plants and the canals sulkily lay under the clawy grip of the thick smog. There is no wind to swipe away the swabs of suffocation. Not a leaf moves. Proud smog is heavily loaded upon mother earth’s bosom. If you take a picture, it would definitely qualify as a beautiful foggy countryside picture. But it would be lifeless. Over a period of time even this poisoned picture will vanish to be replaced by an even bleaker vision.

Gone are the days of big groups of birds. A couple of herons, two-three egrets and some meek cormorants play the role of moving characters in this smog-smeared, frozen picture. A tiny warbler preens from the clump of elephant grass. A parrot tweets dispiritedly. An ibis gives a pathetic, suffering call. A few black kites go scouting the ground. A coucal is busy in the tall clumps of sharp-leaved reeds. A migrant Bihari laborer has cast a fish-line in the canal. A happy news at last bringing a smile on his face. He catches a rohu, a good half kg of freshwater meat. He is still fresh after the chhath celebrations.

Some Nepalese are employed at a poultry farm. They have caught a swarm of little eels from the shallow waters of a distributary field channel branching off from one of the canals. Life has all the reasons to be busy against all odds. Wondering at the capacity of life to adopt newer and newer ways of staying optimistic even in the face of all these gloomy clouds, I move on my customary stroll along the thin ribbon of wilderness along the space between the canals.

The criticality of everything from religion to rags

 

There are critical issues. Everything, from religion to rags, seems in a tight political grip. However, unbothered of all the bigger things a beautiful scene unfolds. It’s a lovely lush green carpet of tiny wheat saplings in a field. A relaxed evening is building up. Bright, warm, yellowish sunrays streaming down on the little wheat crop painted with farming precision in the fields. A farmer is watering his wheat crop. Watering the crops means a feast for the egrets. A party of snow-white egrets is feasting on the worms and insects scurrying out to save themselves from the flood.

Elsewhere, the mankind has been at war with nature. And in its angry, stressful wake has lost 50 percent sperm count during the last fifty years. We may go for blatant propagation of our species, but mother nature knows exactly well how to level up the things.

We love cows and revere them. They seem to feel somehow that they are empowered politically at the moment. So they sit right in the middle of busy roads and majestically chew cuddle. I think they are safer on the roads than the humans are. The vigilante groups are very diligent in their responsibilities.

The monkeys are also revered by we Hindus because of their connection with Lord Hanuman. We are very busy these days, so have little time to do justice to our faith. So as we are running for office and business or pilgrimages we throw fruits and eatables towards the monkeys waiting by the roadside. The cute simians run to grab the respectful offerings. Many get killed and injured by speeding vehicles. But the thrower of things thinks that he has done a pious task.   

The little world of farmers

Ranbeer is my share-cropper, an arrangement between an idle owner and a hardworking farmer. He has been very hardworking during our decades-long partnership. Earlier he worked very hard but now in his sixties he is retired from active farming, just plies the tractor, directs the farm workers, drinks, plays cards in chaupals, suffers fits of mysterious nature, raises verbal storms against his still strong and robust wife. He is fine with numbers and keeps a little pocket diary where he manages the accounting figures concerning our farming partnership to the last paisa. That is the simple broadsheet of his life. It’s an ideology-free life of a farmer, untangled, aloof from the snarling complexities of the mind.  

The doctors couldn’t give any clue to his swooning fits, so I gave him a spiritual certification that he goes into a Samadhi. He has no clue to what I say so just laughs at it, taking it to be just one of the poor jokes cracked by the bookish guys like yours truly. All of us are our own doctors, the best doctors in fact because we know our own system more than anyone else. I was once asking him about what and whys of his fits, how did he feel, etc. ‘Well, I hardly remember anything. It just strikes suddenly. When I come back to my senses, I always find a few drops of urine on my pajama and after that I feel very weak for a couple of days,’ he gave me the medical summary to diagnose the nature of his medical condition.

I researched on it and failed to come to a conclusion. So while the doctors failed to check his fainting swoons and fits, he devised a solution for himself. ‘The tractor jumps and shakes my body quite vigorously and due to this I don’t suffer fits while plying my tractor,’ he looked assured. After that he started spending as much time as possible on his tractor. His wife, who worked equal to two strong bulls in the domain of hard field labor, could draw consolation that hers wasn’t a case of total exploitation as her husband was at least contributing to farming as a tractor driver.

Then the myth was broken one day. Ranbeer all smug, and looking at the mouth-watering prospects of getting a full liquor bottle to drink in the evening with his pals, was plying his tractor on the road to the town. A couple of farmers were sitting comfortably by his sides on the mud-guards. Maybe it was the fault of the road makers. They had made it too smooth with a fresh layering of tar, so Ranbeer’s body didn’t shake sufficiently to avoid a fit. The tractor was running at a reasonable speed and the farmer lost consciousness suddenly without any prior warning or symptoms. Both his fellow peasants had to jump into action with the agility of a rat snake to avoid a common fit for all three of them in the roadside ditch. After that Ranbeer isn’t contributing to farming even as a tractor driver. His wife is aggrieved. She feels exploited in this one-sided equation. But she is helpless in doing work. A life-long habit of hard labor, her Ikigai, won’t allow her to sit idle. So she just cannot subdue her inclination to start walking to the fields to work and sweat out the miseries of life. But she harasses him a lot, cracks jokes, treats him like a child, and fires puns and much-much more.

There is some wild growth in a corner of one of the fields. A big cobra stays there. People talk about it with awe and wonder. The share-cropping couple has planted laukis. Ranbeer’s wife is helpless in doing hard work. She has to do farming work to keep her life meaningful. So she is busy in weeding out the extra growth among the vegetable vines. The cobra struck at her sickle-bearing hand. It was there under the vines. She fell back due to the shock and the offended reptile in fact crawled over her stomach. She was all alone in the field at that time. Imagine the shock and nightmare of a cobra strike.

I am presenting here her own words as I listened to her a bit guiltily and her eyes almost accusing me of partnership in crime as if saying it was your cobra because it stays in your field. Here goes her post-bite story:

‘I fell down and it jumped on my body and crawled over me. I couldn’t stand up. I started crying. Tried to get up but would fall down. Then I thought why die while running and repeatedly falling down. So I tied my duppatta on my hand, gave a cut around the bite and lay down weeping to die peacefully.’

After fifteen minutes her son arrived and took her to the snakebite healer who uses a secret herbal concoction for detoxification. The patient vomits and goes into diarrheal fits to cleanse the system. It works well. Surprisingly. The success ratio is almost 95 percent. Most of the snake-bitten people get cured.

She was up for terrible vomiting and diarrhea for a couple of days. Ranbeer felt inconvenience about it. ‘Put her cot near the washroom so that there is no unnecessary messing up of the place,’ he managed the situation as a firm family patriarch. Then he went to her cot and consoled, ‘You will get cured, don’t worry. Most probably the snake just gave a hiss on your skin and you panicked.’ Then he lamented about food not getting cooked on time, the usual inconveniences born in the life of a farmer with the wife getting bedridden. She listened to all this, not saying much but resolved to make it very tough for him once she got back to her feet.

These are very tough people. I wasn’t expecting her to go to the fields at least during this season. But she was right there at the farm doing the usual chores the very next week itself. Salutes to these courageous Jat peasant women!  

PS: She was earlier bitten by a snake while taking out dung-cakes from a bitoda, a conical dung-cake store covered with hay and straw. Ranbeer himself was bitten by a snake in the fields few years back. So they are veterans in the scary experience. The farmers world over lead such a tough life. But when it comes to setting narratives and building agendas by the power aspirants, the farmers and their cause lie at the base of their scheme.

A Notebook of Dancing Shadows (My Latest Book)

 

<Blurb (A Notebook of Dancing Shadows)>

Step into the world of the introspective and poetic writer, where the mundane transforms into the profound, and the ordinary becomes extraordinary. In ‘A Notebook of Dancing Shadows,’ we are invited into the gentle embrace of a soulful observer, who effortlessly weaves together the threads of everyday life with the tapestry of the spiritual realm.

With each turn of the page, readers are drawn deeper into the writer’s inner sanctum, where thoughts flutter like leaves in the wind and emotions ebb and flow like the tide. From the whispering secrets of nature to the intricate dance of social processes, every observation is tinged with a sense of wonder and reverence for the world around us.

But beyond mere observation, this collection transcends the boundaries of the ordinary, delving into the writer’s spiritual quest for meaning and truth. Through moments of contemplation and introspection, he grapples with the mysteries of existence, seeking solace in the beauty of the unknown.

‘A Notebook of Dancing Shadows’ is not just a book, but a journey—a journey of the heart, the mind and the soul. It is a lyrical exploration of life’s complexities, rendered with a delicate touch and an unwavering sense of grace. So, step into the writer’s world and let his words illuminate the path to a deeper understanding of the human experience.

<Preface>

Welcome, dear reader, to a journey through the meandering paths of observation, reflection and contemplation. In the pages that follow, you’ll find an eclectic mix of thoughts, musings and opinions penned by a humble wanderer of the countryside, where the whispers of nature intertwine with the echoes of profound existential questions.

I am but a simple soul, dwelling in the embrace of a not so tranquil village, where luckily time still moves at its own semi-leisurely pace, and somehow one can still feel that the rhythm of life is dictated by the seasons. From the vantage point of my rustic abode, I embark on solitary walks, allowing the gentle embrace of nature to envelop me in its serene folds.

In the quiet solitude of these wanderings, I find myself attuned to the subtle symphony of the natural world – the delicate flutter of a butterfly’s wings, the ephemeral beauty of a wildflower by the wayside, or the poignant dance of a leaf as it takes its final flight from the branches above. Each of these seemingly mundane occurrences carries within it a profound message, a glimpse into the interconnectedness of all things, and a reminder of the transient nature of existence.

But my observations extend beyond the realm of the natural world, encompassing the grand tapestry of human affairs and the tumultuous currents of society. From the smallest acts of kindness to the grandest geopolitical upheavals, I offer my reflections with a poet’s heart and a seeker’s spirit.

As you delve into the pages of this book, you may find yourself traversing unexpected terrain – from the tranquil beauty of a sun-dappled glade to the chaotic hustle and bustle of the human experience. Yet, amidst the cacophony of voices clamoring for attention, I invite you to pause, to linger awhile, and to contemplate the deeper truths that lie beneath the surface of our existence.

For I am not merely an observer of life; I am a participant in its unfolding drama, a fellow traveler on the winding road of human experience. And in sharing my thoughts and insights with you, I hope to spark a dialogue, to ignite the flame of curiosity, and to inspire a renewed sense of wonder and appreciation for the world around us.

My beliefs are firmly rooted in humanism and secularism. I am also not immune to the allure of the spiritual realm. Indeed, many of the pieces contained within these pages are imbued with a sense of awe and reverence for the mysteries that lie beyond the confines of our understanding.

So, dear reader, as you embark on this journey with me, I encourage you to approach it with an open mind and a willing heart. For in the pages of this book, you may find not only a reflection of my own thoughts and experiences but also a mirror in which to contemplate your own journey through life.

May you find solace in the beauty of nature, wisdom in the complexity of human affairs, and inspiration in the eternal quest for truth and meaning! And may the words contained herein serve as a gentle guide on your own path of discovery.

With warmest regards,

Sandeep Dahiya (Sufi), April 2024

Be a healer

 All of us carry an aura around us. It comprises an electro-magnetic field born of the flow of the life energy through and around our bodies. The quality of this aura is a function of our mental, physical and emotional states. Anger, regret, fear, jealousy, desperation, sorrow, rejection and hopelessness create a sort of negative energy and consequently a negative aura. It means we carry bad aura. It pollutes the surrounding environment like a heap of garbage. Now isn’t it our bounden duty to keep the environment clean by remaining positive, happy, smiling, poised, relaxed, sympathetic and compassionate? It's our duty fella! It's as good for others' health as it is for our own. All the steps to the cleaning of all types of pollutants start from the self. Stay happy. Just by doing this we do a social service.

The lost faith

 Casting a vote feels futile in the present circumstances. As a voter, using the EVM (in its current form and management under a vastly politicised election commission) feels like going into the battle with a stick while the mighty soldiers are fighting with rocket launchers. Further, under the current political authority, my faith in free and fair elections has been jolted because when you try to retain power 'at whatever cost' then democracy gets sabotaged. There are enough loopholes in our entire bureaucratic, judicial and legislative system to allow misuse and manipulation to pass as legalized actions. The media, as all of us know, is no longer free, fair and unbiased (with the exception of few upright journalists whose name can be counted on fingers), in its reporting and coverage of issues. Fancy, fictionalized narratives do the rounds, pleasantly blinding the people in their sand-swirls. Yes, India has emerged strongly internationally, no doubt about that. But it has come at the cost of lots of undemocratic maneuvering internally. The society is highly polarized on hate principles based on caste, region and religion. The rich have turned super rich; the poor have turned poorer. The farmers and laborers are under a lot of stress. An empty stomach can't pacify its hunger by reviving the hypothetical national glory of Dharam Rajya and Vishva Guru. They need bread. We still are a poor nation with a high quotient of jingoism and hoopla. So on the voting day, it would be far better to carry on the routine work. Why should we the common people disturb our mundane schedule? The election day is a festival of democracy. One should be in high spirits on this occasion. But how can one feel it to be a festival when it's just a mudslinging game among the power aspirants?!

The art of emptying

 Well before you take steps to fulfill your dreams, learn the art of emptying, of letting go, of letting out unwanted mossy dregs in the container of your destiny. Emptying isn’t defeatist. It’s not surrender. It’s a calculated step towards victory, towards fulfillment. It’s the preparation for gain, the beginning of filling up. Instead of running after the mirage of fulfillment, focus on emptying. Fulfillment is just a step away. Fullness starts at the moment of complete emptying. Wash, scrub, rinse and drain out the muck from the pot of your destiny. Wash away hate, anger, jealousy, ignorance, desires, phobias, complexities and overblown ambition. Drain these out. Let it be a perfectly clean and swanky pot of emptiness. The universe is expanding. It wants clean chambers to pour its energy into. It will sneak into the clean house in the form of your dreams and aspirations. The swabs clinging to the bottom are the repellents to fulfillment. Clean these. Work on emptying. Work on emptiness and you are in fact moving towards fullness. In a perfectly clean container there is no limitation on fulfillment, no hurdles to materialization of dreams, no restrictions on infinite cosmic harmony pouring its vastness into the container. A scribbled canvas has limitations of painting, a clean one has infinite possibilities of shapes and pictures. Scrub the slate clean before you start the journey. Even if it means a lifetime of emptying, it still will not be a loss. Even a second of fulfillment will be worth it. It will still be better than pouring the nectar of your efforts in an unclean pot, and just adding onto the stinking broth that never gives happiness and satisfaction.

A little slice of truth

 It’s a lush green forest around you. Birds are chirping. It’s early morning and a cool breeze is blowing. Nearby, gurgling waters of a brook add music to the stillness around. You feel better. It feels good. The external orderliness, peace and calm raise the bar of your better feeling. With the same set of your own individual, internal, self-specific problems, worries and concerns you feel better if the surrounds are better.

The desert sand is burning. It’s noon and forget about trees you cannot see even a blade of grass for miles. You feel horrible. You feel bad. Worse than your self-specific set of worries make you feel normally. You feel bad if the surroundings are not convenient.

We cannot inhale in isolation. If there is misery in air, it will enter your lungs. Use air-masks and air filters, do whatever. Life still will be stifling and genuine efforts just a struggle because we cannot help inhaling our share of the miseries. The solution lies in cutting down on pollutants. Not in wearing masks. But when it comes to our struggle to increase our happiness, the efforts are almost as useless as wearing masks when the air is polluted.  

Our own set of factors that make life either good or bad are not the sole deciding elements in making us happy or unhappy. If we are happy, then we are just sharing a fraction of the overall happiness surrounding us. Our lungs are safe just in proportion to the purity of air around. If the quality of air is good, only then the individual battles like quitting smoking, eating healthy and doing yoga to keep lungs safe will be meaningful. 

If we are unhappy, that also is a fraction of the overall misery spread around. Individual is just a constituent of the whole. Happiness is drawn from the overall pool. How long the frogs will sing songs of self gratification in a vanishing pond? Its waters vaporizing. Its shoreline decreasing. Stanching green mossy puddle. What can be drawn out of it? Only death and misery, not life and happiness.   

A talented software engineer, with his tools of prosperity and happiness, is of no use at a place like Somalia. There is no surrounding prosperity to help him nurture his talent. There is no supportive economy and companies to help him contribute to the overall wellness and get a fraction of the happiness and feel good. A software engineer prospers in America because using his skills he can contribute to and earn back a fraction of the happiness spread around.         

The surroundings set the stage for either make or break. 

“Love thy neighbor!” By loving others you are loving yourself. By caring for others, you are caring for yourself. By contributing to happiness, you are adding to your own happiness because your share of happiness and prosperity will be just a fraction of the overall happiness around. With your effort and skills, you draw a big portion if the social forest around you is healthy like the natural forest where each breath installs new vitality in you. 

Long before you really start doing something to add to the overall wellness around you, start with a simple practice. You might be busy with scores of neck-breaking responsibilities, leaving you with very little time for real action on the goodness front. Start thinking good of others. Think good for your surroundings. Be happy over others’ victories. Smile over somebody’s stroke of luck. Feel bad for somebody’s loss. Say some sympathetic words as well. Over years, the goodness in womb will get healthy. It will deliver a healthy baby. And sooner or later you will definitely ‘do’ something to add to the overall goodness around you before you finish your journey. 

You will then have a larger share from the pool of wellness. When the sun will be setting and you preparing to enter the night for rest, you will walk into the forest with well-meaning steps. It will be a far happier retirement than it would have been otherwise.

Keep walking with a smile

 Usually people, most of us, walk through a grey zone of shifting shadows. It's not totally dark, it's a mundane journey. Neither too painful, nor joyous one. It leads to a common destination as well. But some people have to walk through a dark cave, you may call it dark night of the soul. It's painful involving lots of suffering. Many perish in the folds of darkness. But those who choose to continue, they finally come out and face the brightest dawn, the dawn of the soul in evolutionary terms. Such people are leaders, guides and inspiration just by default. They need not even try to accomplish anything. Just by being there they do goodness. And if they choose to guide fellow human beings, they make good masters. 

So remember this, always, as you walk through your dark nights, that you are such a soul. And the patches of darkness will keep arriving periodically till you see the sunshine finally and be an inspiration to others. So keep walking. With a smile. And keep in touch with the people who care for you. Don't allow the darkness to build more walls around you. Best wishes brothers and sisters!👍