The last primitive kingdom

 

Far away from the Indian mainland in the watery expanses of the Bay of Bengal lies the last outpost of the prehistoric times. A tiny place where the world is still exactly as it was 50,000 years ago with a few minor exceptions. It’s a little island named North Sentinel Island, a little earthen dot in the lap of sea measuring 60 square kilometers in area with an approximately squarish outline. It’s inhabited by a prehistoric tribe called Sentinelese.

Let’s call it the Kingdom of Sentinelese. The prehistoric kingdom’s population is estimated to be about 50 to 200. Its seashore is roughly 50 meters wide. It’s bordered with littoral growth, which leads to a dense tropical evergreen forest. Its citizens are hunter-gatherers who use bows and arrows, collect seafood, wear bark strings on their handsome black nakedness and carry daggers in string waist-belts as a mark of confidence and courage. Their homes are poorly contrived huts having leaf-covered roofs. And in brush with the other-worldly civilization they scavenge for the metal pieces that wash ashore—to them it must be just like any other offering by father sea—to make tools, spears and metal-tipped arrows with these to go for hunting pigs on the land and making canoes for lagoon fishing. Imagine they must be thinking that the metal is a produce of the sea just like fish!

There is no clue about their language. It’s primarily based on lots of gesticulations, exclamations and body movements. They are happy in their world and aren’t interested in interacting with the outer world.

Their history, in our chronological terms, starts in 1771 when an East India Company’s hydrographic survey vessel, the Diligent, observed ‘a multitude of lights…upon the shore’. It happens to be the old civilization’s first brush with modern history.

Wars and battles are defined in proportion to the level of upheavals they carry for the geography, lifestyle and population of a particular place, region or country. So the tiny isolated place with its miniscule prehistoric population has a right to term its minute skirmishes with the outer world as wars and battles because they shake the very roots of their existence.

The Battle of October 1867: An Indian merchant vessel named Nineveh got stranded on a reef off the coast of the North Sentinel Island. The passengers and the crew landed on the prehistoric kingdom’s beach. On the third day as they lazily started their breakfast, there was an assault by a group of naked, short-haired, red-painted inhabitants. It was a confident breezy assault. The Sentinelese bowmen forced the ship’s captain to escape in a boat. The defeated head of the rival army was later rescued by a brig. The Royal Navy sent a rescue party. They took all the survivors on board. Thankfully the stranded crew had somehow managed to repel the attackers with sticks and stones. There were no fatal casualties on both sides apart from cuts, wounds and sore throats born of constant shouting and cuss words. As the civilized man departed from their primitive shores, the Sentinelese must have celebrated their first victory over the enemy coming from the wombs of the sea in their strange vessels.

The Assault of 1880: It was more organized and target-oriented encroachment by the outsiders. Andaman and Nicobar’s colonial administrator Naurice Vidal Portman—who had his own administrative reasons to scout the island falling within his jurisdiction—arrived on the shore with an armed group of convict-orderlies, Europeans and Andamanese trackers from other indigenous groups who had been brought under the yoke of ‘civilization’. It was big and a well-organized army this time. The islanders fled the scene. So that would go as a shameful defeat in the annals of their history. After days of futile search they caught an elderly man, woman and four children. So that accounts for the first mass kidnapping of its citizens—given their tiny population. Away from home and exposed to strange diseases, the elderly man and the woman died but the children somehow survived. The colonial administrator sent back the children with gifts from the other world. I’m sure strange myths and legends would have spun in the prehistoric kingdom based on what the children saw ‘outside’ and the things brought with them. Maybe certain stories, including strange Gods and demons based on these experiences, do the rounds among the tiny group. Or maybe the descendants of those returned children would claim more privileged status in the tribal society because their ancestors fought their way back from the enemy from the sea.

The Triumph of 1896: A convict escaped from the penal colony on the Great Andaman island using a makeshift raft. The lone runaway landed on the North Sentinelese beach. This time it was easy for the defending army. He was easily slayed. In the coming years they successfully accomplished arrow piercings and throat cutting with some odd convicts who landed on their shore by sheer bad luck. I’m sure the Sentinelese bowman whose arrows killed these unfortunate convicts must have claimed a heroic status in local myth and folklore.

In between, various British colonial administrators landed on the beach—not with the intention to rout and kill them altogether because had they wished it, it could have been done easily—with the purpose of academic research and a keen sense of curiosity, almost like searching for a new animal species in the forest. The prehistoric tribesmen would retreat into the inner parts after shooting arrows and making angry gesticulations. And when the research parties went back to the other part of the cosmos, i.e., the sea, they must have felt proud of their natural fortification and would have imagined that the enemy retreated because of the fear of their arrows and spears.

After independence, the Indian government declared the island a tribal reserve for anthropological research and studies. So they are protected under the Indian law. The Indian coast guard maintains an armed patrol to prohibit travel within three nautical miles off the prehistoric shores. During their protecting patrols, the Indian coast guards have taken photos of naked men aiming arrows at them. The kingdom of the Sentinelese have every reason to believe that they are continuously warding off the enemy with their sticks, stones, bows and spears who dare not come onshore to meet them in a battle. Well, isn’t our imagination bound by the extent of our knowledge? They must be having regular watch posts and parties to ward off the enemy who is their protectors in reality. If not for them there would be intruders and a little party with automatic weapons would destroy the prehistoric kingdom. But this assumption that their strict vigil parties keep the patrol parties away must have given rise to a rudimentary system of army, posts and watch parties. What a way to keep busy on the basis of imagined realities! We too are doing the same, by the way—at a bigger scale though. Who knows a far more advanced and evolved form of life somewhere in the cosmos has declared us to be a tiny reserve to protect us and watch with amusement all the savage antics going on our small place? The UFOs might actually be the space patrols—like the Indian navy patrols around the tiny island to protect it—to keep the intruders away. And just like the Sentinelese are happy in warding off the outsiders, we too are beating our chests with pride for having defended our place so bravely.  

The Battle of 1974: A National Geographic team approached the island to a make a documentary. The chief modus operandi was to give them gifts to earn their trust. As the motorboat broke through the surrounding barrier reef and entered their calm fishing lagoon, the Sentinelese advance guard launched a barrage of arrows. The crew but landed at a safe beach. They left behind an interesting assortment of gifts—a plastic toy car to catch the fancy of some prehistoric kid, a live pig to make their mouth water, a doll to raise the fancy of some little girl and aluminum cookware to tickle the kitchen nerves in a woman. They responded very wisely. They launched a fresh barrage of arrows. One of the arrows hit the documentary director in his thigh. The man who had hit the director proudly laughed from behind a tree. Others speared the pig and buried it with the doll. But they took away coconuts and kitchenware. God knows what will they do with the utensils! But it was a handsome victory. The Sentinelese bravado had once again saved the motherland. The brave man who had injured the enemy commander must have been given extra coconuts from the war booty that day. And these little-little victories against the small parties of outsiders must have acquired the bloody proportions of pitched battles won with lots of efforts and bravery. I’m glad that they aren’t aware of the million-strong armies, automatic guns, artillery, tanks, fighter jets and nuclear weapons. Our reality seems to be framed on the basis of what we ‘don’t’ know. 

The Arrival of a Friendly Alien: Famed anthropologist TN Pandit is known for his pioneer work among the indigenous tribal groups scattered over various islands in the Andaman and Nicobar. Many hitherto untouched tribals positively responded to his gentle, friendly touch. He slowly, silently crept into their little world and danced exuberantly with bare-breasted Jarawa tribe women. He acted as a scholarly bridge between the so-called civilized and the so-called primitive man. The untouched tribals would dance with him, take off his clothes, examine his anatomy to find similarities between the outsider and themselves. The Jarawas slowly got assimilated in the society. Then Jarawa women started giving birth to the babies of the settlers. They picked up clothes, dropped their bows and arrows (and their raw pride and freedom with it). Their raw dignity and freedom was gone. Many were turned into beggars or mere showpieces for the tourists to marvel at. But these are the spin-offs of modernity. The earth has to turn a mono-culture, and primitiveness chucked off from everywhere. But at least it is still preserved at a little island far off in the Bay of Bengal.

Mr Pandit led many academic attempts to connect with the Sentinelese between 1967 and 1991. He knew how to connect with the aborigines and had won the trust of many raw, animalistic tribes of the region. But the Sentinelese were the toughest to approach. They always wanted to retain their prehistoric ethos. Mr. Pandit made several friendly expeditions in the 1980s and early 1990s. Maybe the fair Kashmiri Pandit definitely carried some raw prehistoric fragrance in him which allowed him to win the trust of many other indigenous tribal groups. He would leave gifts on the shore. It was a shaky love-hate contact. Sometimes they would throw away the gifts into the sea, shouting, aiming arrows, flashing their genitals at the outsiders scanning them through telescopes from a distance. Sometimes they waved and took some of the gifts, leaving the rest untouched. Sometimes they turned their backs to show a defecating gesture. It was a kind of no-welcome gesture; maybe a type of message that we take a dump on your civilized society. Sometimes they would start swaying their penises, as if proclaiming their utter freedom, thus challenging the civilized man to do the same.

Then arrived the first soft brace of the old with the new on January 4, 1991. Perhaps it would go down as the ancient society’s brief truce with the enemy. The first touch! Very tentative though. A young woman named Madhumala Chattopadhyay was part of the scholarly expedition. Maybe they found a woman’s presence assuring. She seemed to have convinced them that there was no danger. As a symbol of ceasefire, a Sentinelese woman fighter pushed her arrow down on the beach sand. A man followed by burying his weapon on the beach as a symbolic gesture of holding fire. They approached the scholarly party without their weapons. Coconuts were distributed hand-to-hand, the outsiders in their boat and the islanders in the sea walking towards the boat in neck deep waters. It turned a gift, not a charity throwaway like earlier. Maybe Mr Pandit and Ms Madhumala appeared to them having saintly touch. The islanders must have named them favorably as some reincarnation of their deities. Further expeditions without Mr Pandit were not met with friendly bearing. Maybe they still remember Mr Pandit as a kindly man from across the seas. Then the government of India closed all voluntary approach methods to reach out to the islanders, leaving them in peace to preserve their prehistoric ways. The Sentinelese army must be basking in pride for having finally defeated the enemy from the waters because they no longer bother them.  

The Sentinelese must have a name for their world, for their kingdom. That isn’t known to us. But for our convenience, an official surveying party fixed a stone tablet on a disused stone hearth to declare it a part of India. Maybe a far more intelligent and developed life form has left a similar tablet claiming earth as its territory, while all of us quibble on the small place like the Sentinelese must be doing, thinking that their existence and survival is guaranteed because they can fight with their arrows. While in reality maybe we are merely left as a little prehistoric dot of earth for academic amusement and anthropological studies by a far-far advanced life-form.

The Sentinelese Expedition to Explore the Outside World (1981): On August 2, 1981, a cargo-ship named MV Primrose laden with chickenfeed from Bangladesh and bound for Australia ran aground off the island. After a few days the captain gave a distress call for firearms. It was the first organized takeover attempt of an enemy object by the prehistoric tribe. About fifty islanders prepared their boats to take over the ship. They launched the attack. Luckily strong winds deflected their arrows and prevented their canoes from reaching the ship. The thirty-one member crew held off the invaders with axes, pipes, flare guns and lots of cuss words and abuses which come very handy during wartimes. A civilian helicopter evacuated them after a week. The tribal army must have felt jubilant seeing the enemy flying away scared of their arrows in their strange vehicle. The shipwreck lay about 90 meters from the shore. Of course now it was a war booty item for the aborigines. They triumphantly got onto the abandoned vessel and scoured it for metal pieces to upgrade the next version of weaponry for their modern army, the metal-tipped arrows and spears. Far away in the outside world, a dealer won a contract to dismantle the ship. This work would last for about 18 months. Maybe at this period of time, the Sentinelese army was led by their bravest general so far. He must have acquired cult proportion in the society because under him they were going out to face the enemy instead of defending from their fortress. Two or three days after the work began, at low tide, the contractor saw three canoes bearing around twelve Sentinelese brave-hearts about fifty feet from the shipwreck. He offered truce over the war booty. As a signal of adjusting their claim on the vessel, which they thought to have won after a battle, he offered them bananas. The brave soldiers accepted the tribute of submission and came onboard and began to take what they thought they had won after the last battle—the smallest pieces of metal scrap to modernize their army, leaving the rest for the enemy from the sea. They visited twice or thrice every month while the dismantling work progressed.

The Doomsday of 2004 (Tsunami): It must have been their day of pralaya when the existence burst and a new phase started after it. There were tectonic changes to the island. It got enlarged after merger with small islands. The sea floor got raised by 1.5 meters. The coral reefs were exposed to the air, thus destroying their fishing lagoons. The government of India carried out aerial expeditions to provide help and assess their casualties. There must have been deaths for sure but many had survived as viewed from the flying choppers. But the survivors turned hostile and aimed arrows at the reconnoitering helicopters. I think they imagined this catastrophe as the handiwork of the enemy from the sea, who having failed in all its earlier attempts to defeat them now launched some watery attack to annihilate them.

Taking Revenge on the Enemy Soldiers (2006): A fishing boat carrying two Indian fishermen drifted off into the shallows near the Sentinelese kingdom. They were killed, their bodies put on stakes facing the sea. It was a stronger message for the enemy. They must have thought that the enemy was trying to snoop on their debilitated strength after the Tsunami strike. A helicopter sent to take away the bodies was pelted with arrows. They won’t take any chance with the enemy anymore.

The War against Organized Religion (2018): Chau, a trained American Christian missionary, entered the prehistoric kingdom illegally without any permit from the kingdom’s unseen protector, the state of India. He paid money to the local fishermen to take him 500-700 meters off the Sentinelese coast and then continued alone in a canoe. On his first approach he received a hostile reaction to his gifts. As his diaries would later elaborate, another time they received him with a ‘mixture of amusement, bewilderment and hostility’. He sang worship songs and tried to converse with them in Xhoba (some basic tribal language spoken among the so-called civilized tribes in the Andaman and Nicobar group). They would giggle, and made high-pitched sounds and gestures. His last letter says that when he tried to give fish and other gifts, a boy shot a metal-headed arrow which pierced the Bible he was holding in front of his chest. What a clear statement! We aren’t for any organized religion here! The fishermen looking from a distance last saw his body being dragged on the shore. An attempt to retrieve his body was aborted. I think the graves of the few people like him must be serving as the proof of the annihilation of the enemy who came to conquer them.

This is the history of the last prehistoric kingdom on the earth. I think that’s how myths, histories and legends develop at a larger scale as well on the earth in its various parts. Our assumed reality seems to be framed by our ignorance.

Let's chew a little lesson!

 

I don't exactly remember the name of that plant. But when we chew its leaves during childhood they tasted very bitter. But the bitter taste was just the half part of the game. The other half presented sweetness when we drank water after chewing the bitter leaves. It was good fun. At the end only sweetness would linger in the mouth. Bitterness transformed into sweetness by water.

Bitter situations are simply the half part of the game. If we keep ourselves limited to the bitter part of the game, we would turn a grumpy, cynical and cranky person. It means we have lived just one half of life; like a passive stone mutely weathering due to environmental elements. But if we take some steps to be a part of the other half and drink the water of patience, gratitude and understanding then sweetness follows. Then bitterness becomes a prelude to sweetness. It then becomes a full life expected of a human being. Then we are a flower blossoming by absorbing the essence of heat, rain, storms and dust and transform these into a sweet smile.

Life will keep throwing its bitter situations. That's its nature. If we just react to these situations we become a sour, unhappy person. But if we respond by taking cool sips of patience and gratitude then sweetness defines our persona despite all the bitter experiences.

The story of a village student

 

Bansraj was a big, broad-faced, bassy voiced thundering bully at our village school. He was a born rebel and breaking all disciplinary injunctions appeared to be the axis of his life. The teachers of course beat him hard and even mistreated him to put his errant ways on course. He simply hated the teachers and with mathematical derivation hated me as well because I stood in the teachers’ good books on account of my disciplined ways. The teachers liked me because I crammed what they asked us to. I was a shy boy and stood as the most intelligent among a group of peasant boys who attended the school unwillingly and took it as a prison. Always in vendetta against the teachers, he would then bully me as his revenge against the system of education. I was really scared of him to be frank. We—me and a few other students who diligently followed the teachers’ instructions—were lily-livered sissies and Bansraj seemed a far grown up guy who already knew how we were born and the why and what of all ‘those’ tabooed things in the fifth standard itself.

I remember in the seventh standard we were sitting in a verandah at the school. The teacher had gone away to while away time, asking us to read the next chapter from our science books. Bansraj was in a catty mood that day. He had, maybe, experienced too much about his body’s reaction to the girls’ presence, a group of them sitting a few paces away from us. Calm and composed, his back against a column, his legs lazily spread out in front, his knickers rolled down to the knees, Bansraj, excited with the pre-puberty heat, gave a live demonstration about the part of human anatomy that has been kept hidden with good social effect. He laid bare the secret truth. ‘See-see, see the helmeted soldier!’ he kept drawling in his toady notes. The girls giggled, abashed to the last core of their blushing self.

The next year, having further gone into the corridors of gupt gyan, he declared to our little group of students who crammed the lessons to qualify as good students, ‘See, don’t be too proud of your homework! Your parents too did the dirty thing, gandi baat to produce you!’ In this way we had the biology lessons long before the science teacher would try to explain it with lots of inhibition and suspicion in his own mind. We were scandalized to know the heavy truth. Well, the teachers tried their best to tame the bull. Master Karampal, a broad-shouldered strongly bearded man, used his muscle power to rein him in.

After the matriculation, Bansraj straightway got into the senior secondary and the university of life itself. First into selling shoes and later as a private money lender, he used his guts and gumption to make some money. Later he turned into a close confidante of the local Congress MLA and further boosted his financial prospects. ‘You have been a self-satisfied, contented man. Had it been me with your type of education, I would have ruled the world!’ he tells me.

He now understands the importance of education. So taking the cause of education very seriously, as a means of ruling the world, he sent his son to the prestigious Doon Valley School. He spent a lot of money on his son’s education. But the boy performed mediocre. ‘And he even missed playing mischief and enjoying life. He turned kamjor for the game of life like you guys,’ he rues.

However, Bansraj has risen in the estimate of our former teachers. He fondly calls them guruji. They too are very happy about his rise. ‘We thought you will turn into a murderous thug. But you seem to have done well Bansraj!’ they congratulate him.

The reason for his success is that he didn’t explode suddenly with his rebelling energies to stand out as a criminal and outlaw in one go. He used the energies in little-little shrewd ways, smartly, intimidatingly, clawing his way through the social jungle and at least got his family financially secure. Master Karampal, who would beat him the most during our school days, is an old man now. But he has now every reason to praise Bansraj. His former pupil now operates as his agent for the lucrative private lending business. He trusts his former pupil to manage monetary things very well. Well, to raise myself in his esteem I cannot even present him my poetry books because he was our history teacher.    

Touch

 

I remember a talk I had with an elderly American Buddhist woman at Mcleodganj many years ago. A very ardent follower of Buddhism she had spent decades in India. The outer bearing, including the religious clothes, was pretty impressive. But she looked very stiff, cautious, even stern. I felt it was like someone going on the fathomless path with lots of calculations; following the principleless path with lots of principles. She stiffened even more as we shook hands. I could feel it clearly. It was a wooden hand that I held. I tried to convince myself of the loftiness of her soul because she had been on the formal path of religion for so long. But I couldn’t feel the warmth, kindness and smile in her persona. Maybe these emanated and I was too coarse or not sensitive enough to feel that.

I can still clearly remember the glint of pride in her eyes when she told me that she had spent years in sadhna and had been a celibate since the age of forty-five. She had spent a few years at Pune as well. The mention of Pune instantly brought great Osho to my mind. ‘So did you stay at Osho commune at Pune?’ I asked innocently. She recoiled with horror as if it was an insult to her hardcore, austere tapasya. She shook her hands and head in a vehement ‘no’ as if staying at Osho’s place would have meant a sin. O thou great Osho, misinterpreted so much for all your elaboration of the naked truth as a means to nail down the illusions! Before mentioning Osho I should have remembered that she had been a celibate for at least two and half decades. It was the crest jewel of her path of renunciation. But the great Osho accepted the presence of sex in the human body and talked of its transformation instead of suppression for everlasting joy. So no wonder the celibate sadhak jumped like a rocket at the mention of Osho.

Well, sex or no sex, if you turn wooden and suspicious even at the age of seventy by the touch of a man of the age of your son, it simply means you have missed a crucial link to liberation. If the suppression of sex has stiffened you, made you austere, not given you a genuine smile, sweetness of temperament or ease of being then one may need to revise the fundamentals of one’s faith.

In contrast I remember a woman from a neighboring village. A very beautiful peasant woman famed for her illustrious beauty and untamed sense of freedom regarding the basic instincts. The lore of her beauty and its exciting spin-offs had reached my ears. There were far more happy and joyful men, and very few jealous ones, having shared the unbridled sense of feminine charms flowing from her persona. There was a joke that she would occupy the best chambers in heaven for having made so many men happy.

Mother usually won’t allow us to go to the fields, taking all the responsibilities on herself. We the pampered ones had the easiest task in the world—studies. Mother must not have been feeling well that day; otherwise I won’t have been there in the fields to get fodder. I was struggling to load the bale of fodder on my bike and failing at it miserably with my bookish hands. The beautiful peasant woman knew me because we shared fields across the village boundary. She walked quickly from a distance. That was the first time I saw her from close quarters. Her famed beauty was no exaggeration. She came smilingly and with a singular effort put the heavy fodder bale on the bike and tied it firmly without even putting the littlest strain on her face. What strength! She must have heard about my bookish ways. ‘These soft hands aren’t for such rough work masterji!’ she took my hand in her rough, peasant woman hands. I will never forget that touch. It was humane, strong, kind, palpable, supportive and understanding. And that friendly smile. And that naughty glint in the eyes. Beautiful was that color of mellowness and acceptance of life in its basic terms on her face. Wonderful was that strength of character in her strong farming hands. ‘And this is the woman the critics malign so much for her sexuality!’ I thought. Shyly I thanked her. She laughed and walked away to continue with her work.

The wooden touch and a full of life, sympathetic touch! The sum and summary is that beyond the debate of sex or no sex, it’s the warmth of our touch, the kindness in our eyes, an accepting smile on our lips that’s more important. If celibacy leaves you wooden and stiff in the old age then I don’t think the Gods would love you for that. And if full compliance with the basic instinct gives you a kind heart, genuine smile and ease of being then the Gods won’t hate you for that.

Since we are talking about the touch of hands, it won’t be misplaced to mention His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s touch. When you hold His hand it seems the softest like a new-born baby. You don’t feel the slightest rigidity, tension, dis-ease or stiffness. It’s almost like a soft brush that a gentle breeze has with a rose petal. You feel divinity in that soft touch. Long live His Holiness!

The little story of a teacher

 

Uncle Mahender, fondly called Masterji, has been very ardent about fulfilling his roles and responsibilities. He is nearly eighty now. During his teaching days the teachers received a paltry pay cheque. He used every single paisa very-very carefully to raise his five children and gave them good education from the rural standards. His meaning of education has been centered around technical education. To bear the costs he would break all records of the maximum number of shaves using the same blade.

Masterji has a sweet tooth and throughout his life he has consumed copious amount of sweets without much adverse consequences for his health. A few years ago, he welcomed me at his house with a gesture his son says he won’t show even to a state Governor if he happens to visit the house. Masterji brought out his box of specially made laddoos from his secret chamber and opened it in front of me so that I could help myself with sweets. It was almost an eighth wonder, as his son says.

Masterji is now nearly deaf and blind. But even more painful is his memory loss. He is sitting in front of the house and I stoop down to shout ‘hello’ in his ear to draw his attention. ‘Do you recognize me Masterji?’ I ask. ‘Hum, yea, yes, you are…Tina’s brother,’ he hits the arrow of memory on the margin of perfect ten. But then he wants to be more specific. ‘You…what do they call you…you I think have a popular name…what was it?’ he is giving a push to his brain to spell out my name. The villagers call me Soofi, Suuppi, Soopi, etc., all the rustic derivatives of my pet name Sufi. ‘Never mind Masterji, the main thing is that you know who I am at least,’ I console him. I don’t tell him my name, leaving this little puzzle for his feeble mind to solve and get some exercise. The old age seems to shed away all the layers we have built-up in life.      

Men have failed this world

 

It’s an angrier world than ever. There are wars, violence, blood and gore. A very insecure world it is. Trust is falling apart. Faith lies sidelined and charlatans misuse trust and belief for parochial motives. The states are arming themselves with more and more deadly weaponry. There is a stampede for supremacy and one-upmanship.

Violence has been deeply institutionalized in the society. The states, intelligence agencies, shadowy players, business mafias, cartels, religious fanatics and many other actors have been covertly and overtly using institutionalized violence to further their interests.

Its effects can be seen in the society. Relationships are falling apart. The people are lonely and depressed. It’s a very unhappy world. And a very dangerous spin-off surfaces: the individualization of violence. The stand-alone shooter mired in his lonely, unrelated world. Someone marooned on the island of pain. He too launches a war, goes out with a sophisticated weapon and shoots innocent people out there for mundane activities of life.

There is so much collective mistrust, hate and insecurity around. The lonely individual absorbs his share of fear, phobias and suffering from the air around. Then he goes for a blast. It’s a culture of arms. Imagine sophisticated weapons in the hands of lonely, anguished, depressed individuals. An unarmed depressed man might go for verbal assaults or fist-work at the most. If you are equipping him with sophisticated armory, you are providing predatory talons to his lonely suffering and anger. Isn’t it an aid in crime? Give back his faith and love in humanity that he has lost, not arms.

The arms industry is running the world. They are the ones who finally decide which country gets bombarded or whose innocent blood is shed in which part of the world. They are very dangerous people. The lethal-most traders they are. To them an ant squashed or a human murdered hardly makes any difference. They are sadistically addicted to blood and gore. It’s simply business. Commerce. To sell more grains you need more hungry bellies. To sell more weapons you need more wars and murders. And a violent society serves their purpose well. A violent society will have more violent leadership. There will be more wars, more blood, more butchering. So they are happy with the scenario of lonely, depressed human hunters.

Ironically, we started as hunters of other species. Now hardly anything is left to hunt in the jungles. So we are hunting our fellow humans—just for the sheer mad fun of it. Nobody is safe anywhere on the earth. Anyone can be killed by anybody over anything in any part of the world.

Is there any chance of redemption? The scenario is very bleak but there is a slim chance. Almost hundred out of hundred mass shooters, bloodthirsty dictators, warmongering leaders, fanatical religious heads, mafias and other evil incarnate are men. The statistical truth is we ‘men’ have failed in managing our mother earth. So let’s try with ‘women’ for a change. Let’s have more and more women in leadership positions. Yes, it will be a far more chatty and gossipy world but that is still better than blood and carnage that we see around.

A January Jaunt

 

White-breasted water-hen is a blackish grey, long-legged, stub-tailed marsh bird with white on breast and face. This one loiters singly. There is moist ground along the path-side bushes. I see it regularly and it seems a solitary wanderer like me. It carries its stubby tail erect as it skulks around, jerking it time to time displaying the chestnut color underneath. These birds are very noisy during the monsoon, but for the rest of the time they are usually shy and silent.

During the monsoons, it hides unseen in a bush and unleashes pretty noisy chuckles, croaks and grunts—krr-kwak-kwak, kook-kook-kook. It loves croaking through cloudy nights. Its diet menu includes worms, insects, grains, shoots and mollusks. It steps around slowly like a long-legged beauty. Its long, yellow legs with long, spread out toes (three branched out forward and one backward) enable the silent wader to leave a fine trail of its toe-marks on the plain, soft sand. The pattern looks like a flowery motif, a fine free-wheeling filigree, looping artistically, taking open, liberated turns. An amazing regular pattern, open to uncertainty and vicissitudes of life. To any solitary lounger it’s a treat to observe and muse over these marks on the countryside path. They attract you like floral patterns in relief on Persian monuments. You can feel the silent wader’s ease while walking on the soft, smooth sand. The symmetry of its gait and toes is such that they fall in a double marked line, so proportionally going along that only a beetle with its tiny legs leaves a better patterned trail. This particular water-hen must be a singular bird, cozily staying in the area, passing time in the moist fields and bushes along the path. I see the delectable proofs of its walk preserved on the clear canvas of sand in the evenings.

The temperature has plummeted down very sharply, almost touching the freezing point in the first week of January. As you grow old, the cold starts eating into your bones during the winters. You pine for sunshine more than anything else. Like a frozen snake coming back to life, I’m walking on the countryside cart track under pale sunrays this afternoon. It’s dark green carpet of wheat on both sides with patches of bright yellow mustard in between. This is mankind’s well-manicured lawn, striking in its modernist monotony. The nature tamed to an extent that the will of man seems the will of God. A few trees survive in the corners of the cropped fields and on the embankments. They seem to hold their little root-hold as if on a lease from the farmer. Then there are mushroom huts among the green and yellow of the wheat and mustard.

Something comes crashing out of the wayside bushes. It’s a black dog, quite well built for its breed. It is running away for its life, its tail safely under legs as if the tail stands for life and losing it or getting it harmed would mean losing the life itself. I have never seen such a fast canine sprint. It simply vanished from my view before I could even realize it. Then a huge Saint Bernard lumbered out onto the path with its long-limbed bulk. The escaper had transgressed into its territory, most probably a mushroom farm farther into the countryside. Well, it helps to be a coward, as long as you have muscles in your legs to support the chicken heart. The big dog stood almost clueless as to where the foe had gone. The runner had safely escaped. Clueless about what to do, the pursuer sniffed at the path-side grass forming the outer boundary of the ruts in the path. Then something snarled at it. It’s a small, shriveled, itchy canine chit lying coiled up in the grass. Well, you have to defend your territory even if it means a square yard of frost-beaten grass by a dusty cart track. The big dog, its face bigger than the little itchy imp, looked surprised and respecting the little thing’s territorial rights moved away. It means really strong people will allow you the satisfaction of punching above your weight.

Kala Tobhla is easefully waiting for his drinking pals to assemble at the little farmhouse by the side. Last year he was very busy in the mushroom farms. ‘No mushroom farming this year?’ I ask as I come across the path. ‘No, no! It was total loss! I hate mushrooms so much so that I even shouted at my wife when she asked me if she could cook mushrooms for dinner. I warned her never to cook it. She is just not to even touch them,’ he poured out his woes.

There is fine sand on the path. It’s not dusty at this point of the season as dew and fog leave enough moisture to keep the dust tamed. The soil bears the marks of farming life. It bears the prints of agricultural endeavors. There are tyre marks. The tractors leave quite authoritative ones. And smaller vehicles a bit lesser ones. Different tyres leave their own patterns, a crazy monotony of designs. In between are the marks of shoes and slippers. But very few people walk on foot these days. Then comes the area of the white-breasted water-hen. Her toe marks stand out quite exclusive among all the man-made markings. It looks like a signature of sanity among all the rubbered and soled stampede.

As a gauzy veil of mist builds up over the green and yellow in the farms, I leave the main cart track and move on the little path going zigzag among the farms. It bears the marks of the so-called lesser species. The peacocks, dogs, insects, birds and the casual human foot among them. These are the little spaces at the margins of the board of human activity where the so-called lesser species walk and leave their footmarks to remind us of their existence.      

Love-struck, dancing birds

Have you seen beautiful, colorful birds courting their lady love? They dance, spread their amazing wings, flick tails in fabulous patterns and let out the best of vocals to attract and woo their lady love. With a negligible exception, it’s the males who go into a great eye-catching show in courting the females. There is a thrower of charms and there is a receiver of those charms. So much for the scheme of this polarity!

That amazing range of play-acted maneuvers (under the impulse of hormonal throw of energy) is not what the male persona is under ordinary circumstances. The show of romantic heroism is an exception; just an ecstatic throw of mood and attitude to catch the female’s attention. These are momentary sprouts. They don’t define the normal traits of a common bird in its day-to-day life. For the rest of the time they are simple birds, doing normal things just like any other bird of the species. And I don’t think the female birds mind that. They are lucky that they don’t have memory like women to remember all this dancing.

The restless male energy is always looking for rest in the silent pools of receptive female energy. She too is looking for the wearied runner to walk home and rest in her receptive folds. It gives a meaning to her life. It fulfills her. It saves her from the restless void, the procreative emptiness brimming with the potential to manifest and create new life forms.

There is hardly any difference between a colorful bird pirouetting in dandy mode using the tail and wings and singing best songs and a man wooing a woman. At the peak of hormonal storm, he jumps to fulfill all the columns of female expectations. That’s natural. But that’s not what he is in the normal state. He is a normal guy otherwise.

Under the patriarchal system, the man has convinced himself to be far superior to the woman. It’s factually very-very incorrect. There is a deep-seated acceptance of his inferiority and to cover that the system of patriarchy was built up. And to justify his patriarchy construct, he is trying his best to fit in the chauvinistic slot from as many angles as possible. When he covets a woman and goes into the process of wooing her, he adopts an emergency ploy to appear the best in all slots. He is helpless and it’s all about bright colors, bright dance, bright song, best attitude, best look, best behavior, best hobbies and much-much more. Truth and genuineness take a backseat. Falsehoods creep in long before we even realize. And where falsehoods creep in, miseries entail in good measure.

O thou poor dancing bird and the still poorer man! But a lady bird can be duped. The dandy can afford to be normal after the deed is done. But not so with a woman. She has a brain and a nice memory. She remembers the entire range of colorful somersaults that you have been doing to get her hand. And that becomes her benchmark to assess you. Now how long you will maintain the crest of your best version? Of course you will come down to a normal self as the fever comes down. Then you appear such a poor guy, almost a cheater who pretended to be what he isn’t usually. I think a woman can be more forgiving if she accepts that the poor guy was simply doing a wooing dance like a bird in the Amazon forest. He is simply throwing his message to have a partner. The content of the message isn’t what he is in reality. It’s just a catchy title to draw attention, like an eye-catching book title and its cover. The title might appear attractive but the story is usually mundane, very-very common.

The bird cannot be dancing forever at the best of its colors and the best of songs. Naturally it will become a common bird after the energetic storm is over. The beautiful parrot turns a boring crow. But brother, why did you try to be what you are not. You gave your best in wooing her and that raised the bar of her expectations. And expectations breed disappointments. She expects you to be the very same beautifully cooing and majestically dancing parrot. She is right in sulking over the dull crow cawing boringly by her side. 

The irony is that we get habituated to take the wooing dance as the primary characteristics in an individual, i.e., we take the catchy title as the story itself. Isn’t that a mistake? The excitement and thrill that one gets out of the bird dance is addictive in nature. We need to learn to be comfortable with normal people around us. We need to give respect and love to the ordinary humanity. Sadly we hold high expectations from people. To fulfill those heavy expectations he is all valor, grace, dignity, bravery, stability, unqualified giving and masculine handsomeness; and she is all receptivity, feminine grace, support, acceptance, care and share—both sides trying their best. Effort beyond a limit breeds artificiality. This artificiality then ends up in stumping each other. After all, how long will one keep jumping at his/her best? Ultimately we have to get grounded. The boring normalcy sets in. The dreams vanish. The colors fade. The songs turn to ugly croakings. Angels turn to dark angels. Then both sides part ways; look for new partners, expecting the thrill of wooing exception to be the everlasting normal. No wonder most of us are a series of broken relationships.

That’s why it’s advisable to be just normal, the real self, even during the phase of courting a partner. Stay as you normally are. Honesty is a highly undervalued trait in the modern society. But primarily it’s the sole trait that decides whether we are carried as a miserable junk into the cemetery or a peaceful corpse looking at whom not many people get scared. I remember the face my mother after she had left her body. She looked angelic and so beautiful in her eternal sleep.

If someone accepts you with your dull colors, weird dancing and funny songs that relationship has a better chance of survival for a longer time. Truth always serves well in the long term. It may appear to let us down in the short term, giving us little-little disappointments and let downs. But it saves us from major collapses in the long term.

One may wonder why this guy is preaching about relationships. Yours truly tries to speak from his own experiences. Experiential knowledge is very near to truth. I did my own set of fabulous dancing for seven years—just once in life and with one person only. I can feel myself almost boasting about the fact. It simply means I have to clear more webs from around my eyes to see more clearly. It’s wise to learn from one’s experience.

Using my creativity I built up a grandiose avatar, almost like a shining angel, and became the crowning prince in her big eyes. In flying too high I burnt my wings. So couldn’t afford to fly anymore after seven years. When I landed on the plane of normalcy, she felt cheated on witnessing my normal colors and mundane songs; her dreams broken, her shining angel merely a common person like anyone around, no longer able to maintain her beautiful dream. There was a normal crow cawing around her. But I’m happy that these are the days of women empowerment. She was confident, self-standing and glamorous, with a smile to kill and eyes that could intoxicate a dozen men with a single glance. No wonder, I saw her flying away with a beautiful swan that was flying in the seventh heaven to fill up the slots of her expectations. ‘You idiot, you too will fall one day!’ I cawed from the ground. Even as a self-believed spiritualist I am happy that he too fell within a couple of years. I take it as a mark of victory for having flown more than him. I’m not bothered about other men but at least I viewed him as a rival.

Normal cawing has its own benefits. It taught me poetry. There were emotional storms in the tea-cup, which I amply cashed by forcibly trying to be philosophical in nature. Lost love, or for that matter any type of loss, is invisibly preparing you for many other gains in many forms. There comes a day when you actually feel gratitude for those losses in shaping what you later became. You realize that those losses were meant to make you what you are today. So I respect the past without any grudges, but I’m far happier with my present and give due credit to all the experiences I went through.

I also realized that maybe I had punched far-far above my weight in wooing and actually winning her. But how long you will keep the arena clear of rivals if the girl is such a head turner that there are at least a dozen men dancing to her tunes with their tongues out? To match her big aura I too had acquired larger dimensions like a porcupine spreading its thorns to look more imposing. All said, as a man I take full responsibility for creating those expectations. And as Buddha said expectations breed sufferings—at one end at least, if not both. Most importantly, I’m happy for her. Why should men have all the fun? The women have been subjugated for too long and they have lots to cover up in enjoyment and normal fun which we the men have enjoyed so far.

Thankfully, I seem to have spent all the wooing fuel in one go. Wise people don’t need to repeat the same experience to get the same lesson again and again. As far as beautiful girls are concerned, I am able to impersonally appreciate them like a flower, with a pleasant detachment. I connect more to old women with their motherly aura and saintly faces carrying the majestic wrinkles of age. Maybe losing my mother is a far bigger weight on my soul than losing the woman I loved.

These days, while watching the colorful birds dancing and singing in the documentaries to woo their ladies I become very conscious, even embarrassed. I cannot blame them. All of us are birds in the same way. But I always wag my admonishing finger and mutter, ‘Son, take care! You will have to pay for this!’

And now on a serious note. Retain your simple colors, ordinary steps and normal songs while wooing a partner. If he or she accepts you with your normal stuff that’s well and good. If not, give it a damn and laugh at all the artificially jumping love-birds—ranging from the birds in documentaries to the people around you—and go giggling about this funny game. 

The perennial hunter

 

It’s an angrier world than ever. There are wars, violence, blood and gore. A very insecure world it is. Trust is falling apart. Faith lies sidelined and charlatans misuse trust and belief for parochial motives. The states are arming themselves with more and more deadly weaponry. There is a stampede for supremacy and one-upmanship.

Violence has been deeply institutionalized in the society. The states, intelligence agencies, shadowy players, business mafias, cartels, religious fanatics and many other actors have been covertly and overtly using institutionalized violence to further their interests.

Its effects can be seen in the society. Relationships are falling apart. The people are lonely and depressed. It’s a very unhappy world. And a very dangerous spin-off surfaces: the individualization of violence. The stand-alone shooter mired in his lonely, unrelated world. Someone marooned on the island of pain. He too launches a war, goes out with a sophisticated weapon and shoots innocent people out there for mundane activities of life.

There is so much collective mistrust, hate and insecurity around. The lonely individual absorbs his share of fear, phobias and suffering from the air around. Then he goes for a blast. It’s a culture of arms. Imagine sophisticated weapons in the hands of lonely, anguished, depressed individuals. An unarmed depressed man might go for verbal assaults or fist-work at the most. If you are equipping him with sophisticated armory, you are providing predatory talons to his lonely suffering and anger. Isn’t it an aid in crime? Give back his faith and love in humanity that he has lost, not arms.

The arms industry is running the world. They are the ones who finally decide which country gets bombarded or whose innocent blood is shed in which part of the world. They are very dangerous people. The lethal-most traders they are. To them an ant squashed or a human murdered hardly makes any difference. They are sadistically addicted to blood and gore. It’s simply business. Commerce. To sell more grains you need more hungry bellies. To sell more weapons you need more wars and murders. And a violent society serves their purpose well. A violent society will have more violent leadership. There will be more wars, more blood, more butchering. So they are happy with the scenario of lonely, depressed human hunters.

Ironically, we started as hunters of other species. Now hardly anything is left to hunt in the jungles. So we are hunting our fellow humans—just for the sheer mad fun of it. Nobody is safe anywhere on the earth. Anyone can be killed by anybody over anything in any part of the world.

Is there any chance of redemption? The scenario is very bleak but there is a slim chance. Almost hundred out of hundred mass shooters, bloodthirsty dictators, warmongering leaders, fanatical religious heads, mafias and other evil incarnate are men. The statistical truth is we ‘men’ have failed in managing our mother earth. So let’s try with ‘women’ for a change. Let’s have more and more women in leadership positions. Yes, it will be a far more chatty and gossipy world but that is still better than blood and carnage that we see around.

A walk in the countryside

 

White-breasted water-hen is a blackish grey, long-legged, stub-tailed marsh bird with white on breast and face. This one loiters singly. There is moist ground along the path-side bushes. I see it regularly and it seems a solitary wanderer like me. It carries its stubby tail erect as it skulks around, jerking it time to time displaying the chestnut color underneath. These birds are very noisy during the monsoon, but for the rest of the time they are usually shy and silent.

During the monsoons, it hides unseen in a bush and unleashes pretty noisy chuckles, croaks and grunts—krr-kwak-kwak, kook-kook-kook. It loves croaking through cloudy nights. Its diet menu includes worms, insects, grains, shoots and mollusks. It steps around slowly like a long-legged beauty. Its long, yellow legs with long, spread out toes (three branched out forward and one backward) enable the silent wader to leave a fine trail of its toe-marks on the plain, soft sand. The pattern looks like a flowery motif, a fine free-wheeling filigree, looping artistically, taking open, liberated turns. An amazing regular pattern, open to uncertainty and vicissitudes of life. To any solitary lounger it’s a treat to observe and muse over these marks on the countryside path. They attract you like floral patterns in relief on Persian monuments. You can feel the silent wader’s ease while walking on the soft, smooth sand. The symmetry of its gait and toes is such that they fall in a double marked line, so proportionally going along that only a beetle with its tiny legs leaves a better patterned trail. This particular water-hen must be a singular bird, cozily staying in the area, passing time in the moist fields and bushes along the path. I see the delectable proofs of its walk preserved on the clear canvas of sand in the evenings.

The temperature has plummeted down very sharply, almost touching the freezing point in the first week of January. As you grow old, the cold starts eating into your bones during the winters. You pine for sunshine more than anything else. Like a frozen snake coming back to life, I’m walking on the countryside cart track under pale sunrays this afternoon. It’s dark green carpet of wheat on both sides with patches of bright yellow mustard in between. This is mankind’s well-manicured lawn, striking in its modernist monotony. The nature tamed to an extent that the will of man seems the will of God. A few trees survive in the corners of the cropped fields and on the embankments. They seem to hold their little root-hold as if on a lease from the farmer. Then there are mushroom huts among the green and yellow of the wheat and mustard.

Something comes crashing out of the wayside bushes. It’s a black dog, quite well built for its breed. It is running away for its life, its tail safely under legs as if the tail stands for life and losing it or getting it harmed would mean losing the life itself. I have never seen such a fast canine sprint. It simply vanished from my view before I could even realize it. Then a huge Saint Bernard lumbered out onto the path with its long-limbed bulk. The escaper had transgressed into its territory, most probably a mushroom farm farther into the countryside. Well, it helps to be a coward, as long as you have muscles in your legs to support the chicken heart. The big dog stood almost clueless as to where the foe had gone. The runner had safely escaped. Clueless about what to do, the pursuer sniffed at the path-side grass forming the outer boundary of the ruts in the path. Then something snarled at it. It’s a small, shriveled, itchy canine chit lying coiled up in the grass. Well, you have to defend your territory even if it means a square yard of frost-beaten grass by a dusty cart track. The big dog, its face bigger than the little itchy imp, looked surprised and respecting the little thing’s territorial rights moved away. It means really strong people will allow you the satisfaction of punching above your weight.

Kala Tobhla is easefully waiting for his drinking pals to assemble at the little farmhouse by the side. Last year he was very busy in the mushroom farms. ‘No mushroom farming this year?’ I ask as I come across the path. ‘No, no! It was total loss! I hate mushrooms so much so that I even shouted at my wife when she asked me if she could cook mushrooms for dinner. I warned her never to cook it. She is just not to even touch them,’ he poured out his woes.

There is fine sand on the path. It’s not dusty at this point of the season as dew and fog leave enough moisture to keep the dust tamed. The soil bears the marks of farming life. It bears the prints of agricultural endeavors. There are tyre marks. The tractors leave quite authoritative ones. And smaller vehicles a bit lesser ones. Different tyres leave their own patterns, a crazy monotony of designs. In between are the marks of shoes and slippers. But very few people walk on foot these days. Then comes the area of the white-breasted water-hen. Her toe marks stand out quite exclusive among all the man-made markings. It looks like a signature of sanity among all the rubbered and soled stampede.

As a gauzy veil of mist builds up over the green and yellow in the farms, I leave the main cart track and move on the little path going zigzag among the farms. It bears the marks of the so-called lesser species. The peacocks, dogs, insects, birds and the casual human foot among them. These are the little spaces at the margins of the board of human activity where the so-called lesser species walk and leave their footmarks to remind us of their existence.