tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66620802719661866782024-03-28T09:21:40.433+05:30Musings and Mutterings: Sandeep Dahiya (www.sandeepdahiya.com)The posts on this blog deal with common people who try to stand proud in front of their own conscience. The rest of the life's tale naturally follows from this point. It's intended to be a joy-maker, helping the reader to see the beauty underlying everyone and everything.
Copyright © Sandeep Dahiya.
All Rights Reserved for all posts on this blog. No part of this blog may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author of this blog.Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.comBlogger1448125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-56106973875190533852024-03-28T09:20:00.003+05:302024-03-28T09:20:51.138+05:30You are the creator <p> All this is a little funny innocent thoroughfare around. This creation is just pushing a unique expression through our identity, our point of existence in Her infinite folds. So let's be proud of what we are doing. Our karma is nothing but a contribution from our end to help the eternal truth in maintaining its sanctity, its mystical depth. So let's create well in full honesty to our own self. Spool your webs and feel that we are fulfilling a vital part in Her scheme of things. Each step we take is in fact Her step to realise Her full potential. We are merely an expression of the infinite potential lying at the quantum level to take more and more shapes and expressions. So do your karma in action, thoughts and emotions in full sincerity, with full awareness, with full presence. And you make Her happy, happy about Herself because She is you and you are just a drop in Her vast cosmic sea. She is happy when you are happy. She is sad when you are sad. She feels like a majestic creator when you are creating something in full awareness and consciously. And She is right there in you when you are aware of your full presence.</p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-74729867960488559952024-03-27T07:57:00.003+05:302024-03-27T07:57:42.893+05:30The real cause of pain<p> Only those in suffering and pain themselves become the source of sorrow to others. The fire within has to burn the carrier's inside first before spreading its effect on others. Happy people hardly cause sorrow around. Observe the firy pit inside, the primary cause of one's sorrows. If we become aware of its burn, we will stop blaming others for our miseries. Others are merely triggers for the fire to flare up more viciously at the most. It helps to remember that all our so called miseries of life are primarily born of our inner condition rather than the life circumstances and the people around.</p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-82856531323501169702024-03-26T09:30:00.003+05:302024-03-26T09:30:23.549+05:30Hope<p> Here is another story of Hope.</p><p>In the Himalayan villages there are some reports of some village elders willing to go into the forests so that they become prey to the tigers. These are very poor people. A tiger victim's family gets one million rupees in compensation. But is it only about money? No. It's about keeping the HOPE alive in their families even if they are no more. So dear friends, just imagine people are ready to even sacrifice their lives to keep the hope alive in their families. Hence, all the rest that one can do to keep the hope alive should be a mere cakewalk.</p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-22043215848992421552024-03-26T09:26:00.002+05:302024-03-26T09:26:19.960+05:30A little story of Hope <p> Sharing the little story of a farmer in the locality.</p><p><br /></p><p>A poor almost illiterate farmer with a little patch of land. A nice man but into alcohol. His son a very diligent disciplined hardworking boy. He did tapasya for medical studies in India. Sadly couldn't get admission. His father sold his little land and sent him to Russia for medical studies. The boy is excelling in studies there. The father is slowly dying and fading away but he is peaceful for keeping the HOPE alive in his son's life. There is a smile on his face even in the face of death.</p><p>That's what life is. If we are lucky we get people who help us in keeping our hopes alive. But even if we are all alone, we have our own SELF to keep the HOPE alive.</p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-84495846225513794942024-03-26T09:18:00.004+05:302024-03-26T09:18:56.255+05:30Healing your life!<p> Good morning everyone...wake up to a lovely day of Karma, learning and smiles.</p><p>Sharing the story of Dr Joe Dispenza.</p><p>I always wondered how come this medicine man turns out to be such a mystic! And here is the cause.</p><p>He met an accident at the age of 23, breaking six vertebrae in the spine. Paralyzed. The doctors said the only chance at walking would come after inserting two 12 inch long steel rods along the spine. He said no and asked to be discharged from the hospital. For three months he lay on his stomach at his friend's place and reconstructed his spine using creative visualisation...step by step...with extreme focus, intention, awareness, being present in the body...and made a new reality using his mind power, by being open to the infinite mind that has all the solutions to all problems. He got up after three months and simply walked away to glory. He hasn't had back pain in the last three decades. He says it's not just about the body, we can heal our life in the same way by recreating better careers, relationships, everything.</p><p>Hope you like it. Wish you all a happy refabrication of life!🌷💛</p><p>Healing Hugs!</p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-82144249011148824212024-01-21T17:54:00.003+05:302024-02-21T15:12:11.701+05:30The mystery of nothingness <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> The matter-like behaviour is a property of the cosmic mind, the universal intelligence throbbing as the energy. Mind, universal collective consciousness, is the primary cosmic constituent. The so-called matter is merely a manifestation of it, just a dependent property. Had it been the reverse, i.e., mind-type behaviour of matter, we surely would require the basic, unbreakable building blocks having intrinsic properties in terms of atomic and subatomic particles. But as we see it, subatomic particles have no intrinsic value and properties independent of the observer. With matter first, and mind just its behaviour, eternity would be mathematically impossible. However, a fundamental entity in the form of cosmic mind leaves an open ended, ever evolving field for the manifestation of matter in countless ways over eternal paths of creation. Simply because there is no intrinsic property or value to define and limit the material manifestation. Call it the cosmic energy or the cosmic mind. It's a dimensionless plane where any kind of material dimension is possible to draw out of nothingness. The limitless canvas. Wipe it, draw another. On and on. Is there any limit to imagination? No. Same is the case with cosmic mind's imagination. Eternal are its horizons.</span></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-54913335958382560652024-01-15T19:35:00.001+05:302024-01-15T19:35:25.090+05:30The pointless point<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> <span style="text-align: justify;">To look for ultimate truth, or
reality, or absolute knowledge, the body would need immense amount of energy.
Because the normal levels of energy would be sufficient to sustain the normal,
collective perception that conditions our mind to settle for base-level
actualization of the infinite potential.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It’s mankind’s destiny to go for
truth, now or later, in this journey or the ones to come. It’s a natural
evolutionary flow, it cannot be avoided. In an unawakened state this energy
will go randomly, in dissipative ways, creating sweet-sour mischief, this
worldliness. But it’s merely a matter of time—the time spanning various
lifetimes—before it stabilizes, develops patterns of self-discipline to touch a
peak in that very individual consciousness. It enables the carrier body to look
for what lies beyond the simple perception-based reality. And the still
remaining stumbling blocks in body, mind and emotions have to fall along;
otherwise one learns the things in a tough task-masterly way.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">This heightened energy finds different
expressions like bhakti (devotion). Gyan (knowledge), karma (action), art and
still much more that we don’t have a clue as of now. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The evolution in consciousness will
never hit a dead end. It’s a cosmic soup of infinite potential. What you think,
feel, imagine or act sets a new point of reality. And it goes on at every point
of existence. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Faith-based expression of heightened
energies is a very sublime form of expression. This dimension unfolds in the
corridors of <i>bhaav</i>. It’s very near the
soul, this channel. It’s warmly loving and draws warmth from the soul itself,
the high point of joyous realization in the individual consciousness. It’s so
easy to jump into the river of ‘relative bliss’ from this point because it’s
very near to the source profound bliss. But before that faith has to shine
bright in its purity and there will be tests through situations and
circumstances, just like there will be in other paths. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In its karma expression, this
energetic blizzard will sire a karma yogi in the carrier body. The carrier body
will express its energetic storms in setting up disciplined, righteous
energetic patterns (dharma) in the society around, like Rama and Krishna did.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In its gyan expression, the individual
consciousness in its carrier body will try to know more and more, observe
keenly, understand, draw logical conclusion in an effort to make a meaning of
this mystery and chaos. It’s an effort to cut the mind with its own tools,
using the basic faculties of the mind to undo its own framework. To allow mind
to run as much as possible in its pursuit of knowledge, so that finally it
stands helplessly, falls and sees a better expression across the cobwebs of its
constructs. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">There is another dimension of the
expression of this energetic storm, a replica of the massive stars bursting
somewhere in the cosmos. It’s kindalini awakening. It’s the most tangible of
all the expressions. It’s a raw, naked force. It stands in front of you,
holding you in its grip with a direct maneuver. It doesn’t take any diplomatic
cover. It stares in your face. It shakes you. It’s nearest to the gross body in
its expression. It’s so near to the base level of ego identification that you
clearly feel its storm in the body as it breaks the obstructions in its path. I
would say it’s a mixture of all the three above mentioned expressions. You are
jolted off your safe zone at all levels of your existence. To make a meaning of
all these psychic reshaping, the reformulation of the nervous system, the remodeling
of the perception channel—which is usually tough with many instances of things
going very wrong—the carrier body takes help of bhakti, gyan and karma (randomly,
in various orders) as per the shifting surges of this psychic force in the
system. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Whichever way it happens in an
individual carrier body, I don’t think there is a final arriving. It’s an
infinite potential. The so-called ‘final arriving’ in itself a self-set
benchmark by the evolved consciousness who rose high, perceived far more than
normal people and agreed to a point. It’s just like space travel. You keep
travelling and never reach any edge and then accept a conceptually defined
reality: Ok, let’s agree to set up this point as the boundary of the space. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">At
every point, in every individual consciousness and its carrier body, there is the
seed of infinite expansion and potential and maybe that draws these energetic
storms. And however far one goes with howsoever heightened energy, the mystery
always remains the same. It all remains to be known after coming to know
everything. There is always more to be realized after realizing everything that
is to realize. A bit puzzling though, right? But we have to accept it
logically, as long as we believe in the concept of infinity. </span></div></span>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-82296431612910785532024-01-14T11:37:00.001+05:302024-01-15T19:36:13.522+05:30A good journeyman <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> You feel lonely on your path and a stranger comes your way. You both walk and smile and become familiar. And at some turn both of you drift apart. Who won't like to go smiling all the way till the end? But still people drift apart because destination is rarely the same. Pain is natural. Memories also cast long shadows from behind. All one can do is to commit oneself to come as a better, more evolved person if at some turn on the path, faraway in future, you come to walk by the side of that same person. This is what I would say doing justice to one's past without wasting present and losing a sight of the future.</span></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-54278691935413275872024-01-08T07:24:00.002+05:302024-01-15T19:36:48.311+05:30Nurturing a soulmate <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> I know we have an overestimated view of our own validity and suitability to be an idealistic soulmate, provided we come across someone suitable person for our pre-existing suitability to be a soulmate. Sounds a bit egoistic! In practical life, soulmateship is fabricated and carefully formulated with conscious effort. Soulmates are delicately worked upon relationships. We presume that we are a package and wait for the destiny to make us meet our soulmates. Well, guys it doesn't work that way. Soulmates are made. We never meet someone as soulmates. Don't expect to meet yours. Love, that initial attraction and biological pull, is just the first step. After that it's a long way to a careful walk on the road to turn someone's soulmate.</span></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-36637912918022748842024-01-03T18:55:00.001+05:302024-01-03T18:55:20.070+05:30Likes and dislikes<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I
know it’s very difficult to like everyone around. We are primarily indifferent
to the strangers. And that constitutes the major part of humanity around us. Then
come those whom we know directly or even indirectly. Among these we have strong
likes and dislikes for someone. Let’s start with the ones whom we dislike.
Dislike is a pretty heavy value judgment. It leaves long shadows of emotions
and thoughts in our brain that eat a lot of energy, block the smooth flow of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pranic</i> energy inside, leaving behind
niggling tugs of restlessness at our being. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">‘Likes’
also have their effects on us. Because likes change into dislikes as well.
Change is the ultimate law, we shouldn’t forget. We create a web of dislikes to
sustain our likes because the latter seem supportive to our identity.
Ultimately both likes and dislikes have to melt because they are two sides of
the same coin. But since dislikes leave direct negative impact on our
psychosomatic system, it’s advisable to start with dislikes. Cut down on your
quota of dislikes, gradually like a sculptor chipping away extra stones to
carve out a beautiful idol. Chip away slowly. The extra stone of dislikes is a
part of you. Accept it. But it needs to be shed to be the best version of
yourself. This is what I mean by ‘making of oneself’. You have the choice to be
the same monolith as you were born. There is nothing wrong with that. Just that
at the end of the journey you feel guilty for having wasted an opportunity. After
all, we have to pass in the court of our own conscience.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Try
to be indifferent to the objects of your dislikes. The perception of someone as
your enemy should dilute to indifference over a period of time. Once you have
no enemies, you will automatically get away from the weight of friendly
attachment. I mean you will still like those whom you consider your friends but
your liking won’t come from your needs and a fear of support. It will be free
of bondage. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Once
you become indifferent to your enemies, you become more realistic and natural
about your friends as well. You don’t hold too many expectations. Most of the
time, our expectations and needs of security pass as our likes and
friendliness. You still will have your core group of people who will stay
irrespective of your attachment or no attachment. And dear <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sadhak</i>, as you move in the middle of the path of likes and
dislikes, equally distant from both, you don’t feel the rub and friction that
you feel on the edges on both sides. Start with being indifferent to your
dislikes. Then everything becomes the same over the decades of your life. It
breeds a sweet indifference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enemies and
friends melt in the same pot.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’m
no spiritualist preaching an all-encompassing love. That seems too idealistic
to a common man like me. I talk about what is feasible. My only problem with
scriptures of all religions is that they would straightaway ask one to be an
earthly version of god, an all-loving, smiling, godly entity. It makes you
guilty because you are human and would slip and the priests and scriptures
stare like tough teachers in your conscience. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I
try not to forget that it’s easy to say the most utopian things. But we are no
gods. We are poor earthlings and we have our little journeys, the journey of a little
species of nature. So my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sadhna</i> at
the moment is just to cut down on my dislikes for my enemies, whom I sometimes
feel like kicking at their bums for their errant ways, to a level of just mild
irritated grimace, then to a slight burn at my ego, then to indifference, maybe
later to forgiveness and who knows, if I’m lucky, even love them one day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Dear
brothers and sisters, why be a victim of too lofty expectations based on
scriptural theses? I know I’m a work in progress. So why should I go itching
for enlightenment? I will take my time. I decide my pace and feel happy if on
the completion of another year on my journey I see some improvement. To be
joyful about tiny gains is a wonderful art. I for one feel like celebrating the
day when I am carefully walking and avoid crushing an ant. Why shouldn’t I
celebrate? If I don’t have it in me to save elephants, why shouldn’t I turn
joyful on saving an ant? Saving an ant keeps the hope of care and consideration
alive in me. I’m happy with my little quota of kindness for it saves me from
complete darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Lastly,
never take life too seriously. What appears on the surface is just an
impression forced by our senses on the infinite pools of cosmic fluidity.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-70188695898905754522024-01-03T18:53:00.005+05:302024-01-03T18:53:57.636+05:30A walk on the countryside road<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">India
is developing very fast. The roads are being built at a hair-raising speed. We
see world class road building technology and engineering equipment at the
construction sites. They make roads very quickly, a smooth cakewalk like a
knife cutting through cheese. During good old days the money would start from
the ministry and it would trickle down to a measly percentage as the famished
tar and asphalt was poorly dumped. It would break up in the next rainy season.
It was a slow world carried by slow-moving files and still slower archaic road
rollers. Now it’s quick and lightning fast. The road-building machinery and
construction firms have taken the game to a new high. The roads are good. Any
give and take in the process, the subtle game between construction
conglomerates and ministries is beyond the understanding of common people like
you and me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The
other day I was walking on the narrow countryside road connecting my village to
the neighboring village about three kilometers away. It’s a musty humid
desultory evening. The monsoon has been lenient so far. There is plenty of
grass and bushes by the sides, especially <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bhang</i>.
It’s almost a monotony over the farm-sides at this time. And the poor people
who need to opiate themselves to forget the burden of life can have a free hand
at it. They expertly move their hands through the leaves and gather the dust to
smoke weed. Two old people are walking slowly and there they stand under a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">jamun</i> tree. One of them, the physically
better one, shakes a bough and there is a drizzle of ripe purple juicy berries.
His still older companion gathers them in a little plastic bag. They will eat
to their full and carry the extra stuff for their respective favorite
grandchild. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The
road is in bad condition. It is far away from the direct administrative
scrutiny. Small-time contactors can take liberties as in the old days. A new
layer of asphalt gets washed away after just one rainy season. The farmers
hardly complain. Their tractors also don’t grumble about it. And there I come
across something reminding me of the good old slow-paced days: the old-style
road roller, a faded yellow iron elephant. They are repairing a little section
where the road has completely vanished. The triple drum roller—three drums for
wheels—slowly whines and winces over soil, gravel and concrete, trying its
level best to do its compacting job diligently like an old worker. It’s all
iron from head to tail. The diesel engine puffs and huffs, billows big bales of
smoke. In comparison to the latest engineering vehicles, it looks a rudimentary
horse-drawn roller of the last to last century. There is a lock on the fuel chamber.
There is another over the engine chamber. The iron elephant has to spend lonely
nights on a solitary narrow road at nights so its engine and fuel have to be
saved from the farmers. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When
I return by the same path after an hour, I find the iron elephant resting. Two <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bihari</i> operators are mounted under the
iron canopy and watching videos on their mobiles. A third workman is sitting
against the front roller, his legs spread out. I hope he hasn’t put up a
challenge that to move ahead they have to go over him. </span><o:p></o:p></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-50641211448281458592024-01-03T18:52:00.005+05:302024-01-03T18:52:51.741+05:30A snapshot of future<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">For
the last couple of centuries we have been a knowledge-driven world. We have
been harvesting, inventing and discovering facts with greater speed with the
passage of time. So data, and their derivatives called algorithms, will be the
new god. A new religion, artificial intelligence, will replace all other belief
systems. In medical science the algorithms based on medical statistics will
equip the artificial intelligence tools to spin out diagnosis, recommend
medication and perform surgeries. The lawyers who used to burn midnight oil to
draft their papers on the basis of thick tomes of law books will get all that
done at the click of a button. The writers will be replaced by content
generation tools. Music, arts, painting, name it anything will see artificial
productions. Now the question arises, what will the humans do. We will be the operators.
Mere operators, not the doer of things. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">See,
in ancient times a farmer drew furrows on ground with the help of crude wood
and stone implements. Then he used cattle to pull the plough. Still, later he
did it with tractor. Now, in the last one he is a mere operator of machinery. So
we will be a civilization of operators primarily. Drones, robotic soldiers,
unmanned military vehicles will be operated by the soldiers in office. The
politicians will operate narrative machines and brand management through social
media and other artificial applications of socializing and communicating. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Human
mind cannot stop at any limits. It has to continuously spin out newer and newer
realities. Virtual realities are a reflection of its urge to break all
boundaries and flow out, do more, acquire more, control and manipulate more.
The operating minds will be as busy as ever. We will devise more complex
structures, problems, institutions, authorities, industry and corporate to
adjust the new quantum leap in what we can accomplish. We have to be busy. The
population will increase and to adjust the cravings of billions of fresh minds
to do something, new avenues need to be set up. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">What
about the human resource problem? Suppose a team of ten content creators is
replaced by one machine and its smart operator. What will the other nine do?
They will have to be adjusted in labor intensive jobs. But labor intensive jobs
will dry up over a period of time with unprecedented increase in the automation
of tasks and processes. I think the civilization will come at loggerheads:
operators (the new nobility) on one side and non-operators (the masses) on the
other. But it will be so easy for the operators to tame the latter or even
eliminate them. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Maybe
the institutions of marriage, raising kids, maintaining lineage will crumble
up. That might cut down population growth. Or even the operators will find
smart ways to check population growth and maintain it at a sustainable level. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-19277834849065483162024-01-03T18:51:00.005+05:302024-01-03T18:51:38.487+05:30The September coup<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I
won’t term it as nothing short of a coup, September coup. The very same
fragile, see-through nest had another dove couple setting home and hearth. A
surprise—two eggs survived to hatch. Many factors contributed to it. One, the
yard was catless during this period. Only one feral cat spent time in the
garden but I doubt it ever hunted even a mouse. Even kittens would spank it. So
it spent most of the time hiding and begging a few pieces of chapatti from me when
hunger would break all limits. Fifteen days of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shraadh</i> also contributed. People left lots of eatables as
ceremonial offerings on wall-tops for monkeys and birds, especially crows. So
they were well fed, taking little interest in dove kids. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The
nest is so small and fragile that one of the hatchlings fell and died. It was a
plump kid. Then it rained incessantly for three days. The little one somehow
kept clutching at the tiny, tilted nest. The hatchling looked bigger than the
nest. Look at the seriousness of the parents in preparing a home for their
kids! Hitting a jackpot of luck, it grew to look like a dove. Then it went
missing on September 25, most probably served as breakfast to some predator.
But still I would consider it a successful hatching from the dove standards
because the majority of their eggs don’t survive. Here at least something grew
at last to look like a dove. </span><o:p></o:p></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-84594300065701209382024-01-03T18:50:00.003+05:302024-01-03T18:50:48.023+05:30Climate Change<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Time
sweeps the slate clean and draws a new picture, only to do it again. Climate
change has seen unprecedented droughts world over—and flooding—especially
Europe and America. As rivers and reservoirs dry, there emerge telltale
footprints of the largest animals earth has seen, dinosaurs. Weighing dozens of
tons and standing taller than even our buildings who would have imagined they
would be wiped out one day. A comet or meteorite strike off the coast of
Mexico—leaving an almost 100 mile wide and 12 mile deep crater—unleashed <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>tidal waves and global winter. The dinosaurs
vanished from earth. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Presently,
as rivers in France and Germany dry up, we see hunger stones exposed—a kind of
famine memorial engravings—telling the tales of human sufferings. The engravers
left them as a mark of severe drought and famine that struck the region. When
the rivers dried up and the humanity hit the rock bottom of miseries, someone
engraved this message on an exposed stone in the river: ‘When you see me,
weep.’ Another famine stone has the message: ‘When this stone goes under, life
will become more colorful again.’</span><o:p></o:p></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-71718773140567691702024-01-03T18:49:00.001+05:302024-01-03T18:49:31.142+05:30Grandpa's story<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> <span style="text-align: justify;">It
was a tough life for Grandfather. His father was bitten to death by bumble bees
when he was only twelve. Grandfather had three siblings, all younger to him,
two brothers and a sister. Those were the days of family feuds over land. The
extended family had lots of domineering males and fearing for her life
Grandfather’s widowed mother left the scene. At such a young age Grandfather
became the family head. A mother abandoning her children left a deep scar on
his heart for which he perhaps carried a heavy grudge against the entire women
race. They were so young and had been left to fend for themselves, so maybe he
was slightly justified in his discomfort about trusting women in general.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Well,
they had to literally survive at the mercy of the clan members who tilled
Grandfather’s land. The children toiled in the fields and got survival crumbs.
Grandfather was very fond of studies but his life situation never allowed him
to go beyond class eight. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When
the boys came of age, taking possession of their land was a big milestone to be
crossed. A kindly but burly farmer stood by them as they, armed with hayforks
and sticks, tilled their first furrows as independent tillers of their share of
land. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">From
the standards of the rustic society, Grandfather was almost a mathematics
wizard. The village <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">patwari</i> had to
depend on him to calculate and measure land. Grandfather loved playing with
numbers. It seemed to be his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ikigai</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He
once enrolled himself in the army. A very athletic and agile man he was making
a good mark in running and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kabbadi</i> as
a trainee recruit. His younger brother was also in the army and in the absence
of senior menfolk the wives and children faced a lot of problems back home.
Seeing their plight, one of his nephews, a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">zamadar</i>
in the British army, got his name struck off from the roll, on the plea that
his uncle had run away from home, leaving behind his wife and children at the
mercy of fate. In this way, Grandfather’s army career was nipped in the bud. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He
was the only educated person in the surrounding area so he was then appointed
as a primary school teacher. He held his tiny school in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chaupals</i>, where he taught all the primary students gathered in one
group at a single place. These never exceeded a dozen or two constituting a
single class for all the students at various rungs of academics from class one
to five. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My
granduncle was serving as a jailor of Multan prison and my father in fact did
his schooling from the first to third standard from Multan. Later, Father would
boast of his Multan schooling and fondly reminisced that the prisoners treated
him like a prince. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In
1947 the partition-time tragedy broke millions of dreams including
Grandfather’s teaching career. There was an influx of refugees. Grandfather was
relieved of his teaching duties and his position was given to some poor refugee
trying to begin a new chapter here in India after the carnage. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">A
tragedy then struck the family. Granduncle died of tuberculosis followed by his
wife shortly later. My own grandmother also died. So here was Grandfather all
alone with his own son (my father) aged around ten and two little sons of the
deceased granduncle, one aged five and the other just two. My second granduncle
set up his separate family. So Grandfather had the task of rearing three sons
singlehandedly. He stood up in his role as a crude version of father and mother
both embaled in one unit. He didn’t remarry, fearing the stepmother would turn
the life of the three boys very difficult. As I have said he had his own reasons
to look at women with apprehension. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He then
worked as a farmer and made several entrepreneurial attempts apart from his
farming tasks. One of these was brick-making. Those were rudimentary
brick-kilns where the bricks were baked in a heap under fuel wood, coal and
dung cakes. Being a mathematician he was more into numbers and calculations,
taking it as a big mathematical puzzle. His clever partners, who ran field
operations, easily duped him while Grandfather was busy with his calculation
books. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Grandfather
appeared to be farsighted for those times. He found that Bengal had hardly any
milk because their cattle were so small and famished. He mustered a band of
like-minded farmers. They chose buxom-most buffaloes and these were boarded on
a cargo train. The entourage chugged ahead on a long journey to Calcutta.
Little did they realize that the Bengali <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">babus</i>
hardly had a stomach for Punjabi lactose. They were, and still are, happy with
their fish and scores of cuisines coming out of their cultural box. As can be
expected the venture failed miserably. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Once,
a farmer owed some money to Grandfather. The said farmer and his clan migrated
to Pilibheet in Nepal <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">terai</i> and
started farming there on leased lands. Grandfather knew how to keep his debtor
still in sight. He followed them there with some calves. He thought that
grazing on their land would fatten the calves and this would at least cover the
interest on the money. The calves grew really well among the lush Himalayan
foothill greenery. But there were leopards and tigers ready to pounce and take
away their share from Grandfather’s debt recovery scheme. They smartly chucked
away Grandfather’s interest earnings that manifested in the form of oodles of
muscles on the growing cattle. Grandfather was left with one sturdy bull to
show some proof of his venture to the villagers back home. He thought if he
could transport that impressive bull to the village, it would help him save his
name as an entrepreneur. The journey was stretched over many parts including
walking and motor transport. During one leg of the journey the bull jumped from
the wagon and broke its leg. Grandfather arrived at the village with a
famished, limping bull. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Irrespective
of all his setbacks he maintained his passion for mathematics. Its ripples would
touch us till matriculation when he tried to solve algebra through his
arithmetic techniques because algebra was outside his domain. </span><o:p></o:p></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-76014262805051125172024-01-03T18:47:00.005+05:302024-01-03T18:47:44.515+05:30Rasleela<p><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In
the untouched, unmoving majesty of this virgin forest, an old, pale banyan leaf
snaps the last sinew of its twigged bondage and flows down to enter the
slumberous folds of the dusty bed prepared by mother earth. An end? Or a new
beginning? Maybe both. Maybe none. It just is. But it’s a leap into a broader
dimension to be a part of another game.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Isn’t
there playfulness around? Beginning, ending, birth, death, life, living, all
connote a play. Be playful. Like Krishna! A series of playfulness from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rasleela</i> with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gopis</i> to killings for dharma in the battlefield and lastly his own
death by a chance arrow in a forest. A beautiful play! Embrace playfulness. Why
be serious <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yar</i>? Let’s leave
seriousness for our weird, funny, scary, stony, sulky corpses once we exit this
avatar.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-25465217809272209262024-01-02T14:25:00.001+05:302024-01-02T16:51:58.745+05:30Human Touch<p><span style="text-align: justify;">Being a bookish guy, I’m not much into
physical activities. But walking on pilgrimages seems to add a different
dimension of physicality and I’m able to surpass my individual capacity and
surprise my own humble self sometimes.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I share a special bond with my brother
and we are here at Rishikesh at the yearend to say a bye of gratitude to the
year going out and greet the new year with hope in the lap of mother Ganga. We
bathe in Maa Gnaga’s holy waters early in the morning and start on the foot
track to the holy shrine of Baba Neekanth. The track passes through verdant
Shivalik hills of Rajaji National Park. It’s fresh and rejuvenating. At the
grossest level it’s a nice exercise for one’s legs and lungs. For those who are
looking for the nutrition of their souls, the names of Maa Ganga and Baba
Neelkanth do the task naturally.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We go on day one and return pretty
joyfully in the evening. The next day we again take early morning bath in the
holy water of Ganga Maa and suddenly feel so reinvigorated to start walking
again to the holy shrine. The same happens on the third day. And before we
realize we have walked to the holy place on three consecutive days. Our
schedule didn’t allow us to continue the walk on the fourth day, otherwise I believe
I would have continued for maybe a week at least. Bathing in Maa Ganga’s sacred
waters cleanses one of age-old sins. So getting one free of tiredness and
fatigue is a mere cakewalk for the divine waters. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Each day, an old woman would greet us
from a distance during the last stretch of the track to Baba Neelkanth. This is
the offseason for the pilgrimage and very few people hit the track. She peers into
the distances to spot some odd pilgrim. She is an old woman beaten by poverty,
age, circumstances. Almost beaten by life and its leela, she has a pleading
voice. It strikes you. Her helplessness and disadvantaged situation acting like
a speed-bump, pulling at your conscience, forcing you to slow down, look at her.
And that sometimes forces a few pilgrims to take out a coin or a ten-rupee note
and offer it to her. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">On the way up, the first day, we have
given her ten rupees. She would continue showering blessings at your back as
you walked away. I heard her till the next bend and waved and looked back a few
times. On the way back, she again accosts us as fresh pilgrims. ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tai</i>, you can see I know. We already met
on the way up!’ I laugh. ‘Yes son, I know. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beta</i> I have to ask from you even on the way down because I have
collected too little money,’ she tells us very honestly. We give her a little
money again. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It gets repeated on the second day as
well. Somehow I felt very easy with her and talked and joked and she laughed.
On the third day, December 31, we decide to give her hundred rupees as a new
year gift. And what does a tiny currency note mean as a gift if you don’t sit
by that person and have a word of empathy and kindness? So today we sit by her
and offer her the gift money. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Then the spontaneity of those somber,
kind, holy moments created a simple reality of human-to-human connect. Its real
significance would strike me later and it does even now with a powerful effect.
As we held her hands and offered her new year gift with kind words of happiness
in the new year, the check-dam of her age-old emotions burst out. She started
crying. These were tears of pain, happiness, suffering, hope. All mixed in one.
She seemed a little baby crying for affection, for sympathetic human touch. My brother
is a spiritualist in practice. I have a very high regard for his genuine values
that he keeps on the practical platform of life. But what he does now even
stumps me. I see him putting his both hands on her head, his both hands affectionately
covering her head. He touches her like a father, like a son, almost like a god.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Her lifelong pains melt. She flows.
She cries profusely. I have no doubt ours happens to be the first human touch
of love, respect and dignity in her entire life. Her soul felt it. As a poor
begging woman, the best she can expect from people is some charity money even
from the kindest of souls. I felt she wasn’t prepared for this warm, genuine
human touch. The way she gave into it seemed as if it was her first experience
that made her realize she was also a human being. She is also something above
and beyond a beggar. I know there are people who would throw a thick wad of
money even without taking care to look how she looked. But will that enrich her
soul that way this touch did?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjV9NoqOwp_UrJas6tgTEWfOFSReXenlIVe9rmBQyhsqxx299zmvP13pDz20FHa6YTYVvLl4wZZe6mA9Ep9YCNKSc-gNnzt0DQBtB4G9s4rwdUzyjEsCBQqQ8hCArFVmhH3hOVqazR-vTj9SD3BxTUSEL1tY_8on3R14nZbMA3MXu2cw8StE-wpUt8QE/s4096/IMG_20231231_155004%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4096" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjV9NoqOwp_UrJas6tgTEWfOFSReXenlIVe9rmBQyhsqxx299zmvP13pDz20FHa6YTYVvLl4wZZe6mA9Ep9YCNKSc-gNnzt0DQBtB4G9s4rwdUzyjEsCBQqQ8hCArFVmhH3hOVqazR-vTj9SD3BxTUSEL1tY_8on3R14nZbMA3MXu2cw8StE-wpUt8QE/s320/IMG_20231231_155004%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We move onto the holy shrine of Lord
Neelkanth. She is still crying with love and gratitude for that human touch and
we can hear her blessings till the next turn. On the way back, I can see that
she is peering into the distance to see us. As we reach her she greets us with
a cheerful demeanor and smiles. As we sit by her to have some more chat, the sweetest
fruits of human touch and kind words drop like a blessing on us. She opens her
soiled, torn cloth bag and opens a treasure of human love. We get the best new year
gifts by a devi. In our absence, she had hastened to a nearby pathside tiny tea
seller and bought gifts for us. She gives us our gifts like a kindest mother.
It’s a packet of Kurkure crunchies and a small packet of biscuits. We are the
richest people in the world. I’m not a fan of crunchies but this one I would
relish like a little kid. After all it’s a gift by a mother. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNKN7nsDDYQdP42AqccwZVlxjTCsye-NATW3FJXR_T8LRVD9_Pr-hNKn_0wVcyE5E50n32ow63qQnbNa7otZKbZm7Dtp2JYxuJpxm1jxOPXgh_a8kk-m_S7tr_eX6iqeguyPv4GScBcx9Vc-dLeQsZ_iBJ8zUBvAReq0oCb4i77YDR9lTx7RG-YH25DO0/s4096/IMG_20240102_125853.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4096" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNKN7nsDDYQdP42AqccwZVlxjTCsye-NATW3FJXR_T8LRVD9_Pr-hNKn_0wVcyE5E50n32ow63qQnbNa7otZKbZm7Dtp2JYxuJpxm1jxOPXgh_a8kk-m_S7tr_eX6iqeguyPv4GScBcx9Vc-dLeQsZ_iBJ8zUBvAReq0oCb4i77YDR9lTx7RG-YH25DO0/s320/IMG_20240102_125853.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Did our few ten-rupee notes and one
one-hundred note opened this lottery of human affection? No. Money is too small
to buy human empathy and love. It was the human touch and kind words. Touch at
the closed stony gates of a poor human and see what treasures topple out, the
treasures that would have withered and died unseen if not for your touch. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We feel so indebted for the priceless
gift that we offer her some more money and she takes it with confidence and
faith like a mother receives her well-deserved share from her sons. She is very
happy and points to her tattered sari and says she will buy a new one with this
money. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As we get up to go and express our
hope to see her again sometime in the new year, she starts crying again and
says who knows she may not be alive by that time. Through tears she says that her
life might be over before we come again on this path. I can feel that she would
very much like to meet us—for that human touch. Thankfully there are enough
kind souls who would at least give a bit of money which is also necessary for
survival in this world. But how I wish there were more people who provide human
touch as well, a touch that reminds a poor person that she also is a human being.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We moved slowly on our path, her
blessings showering like rose petals from behind. It was a sad feeling, somehow;
leaving someone behind with sad tears—even if these are of gratitude and love—is
too much for a poetic man like me. I looked back a few times and waved and she
waved in reply. At the bend I turned again, had a glimpse of her waving hand,
heard a feeble reverberation of her blessings and moved on with the hope that
she will be there when I return sometime in future. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-13800538996846787362023-12-27T12:03:00.002+05:302023-12-27T12:03:31.582+05:30In celebration of life and living<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Why
would there be sense pleasure in nature? Can you imagine any type of life
possible without it on the planet? Is manifestation possible at all without
sense-driven gratification? Isn’t sensual pacification the gateway from the unmanifest
to the manifest? When a flower blooms isn’t it a result of the black-bee’s
sense gratification? When a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rishi</i>
goes into the caves to launch his war against the senses, isn’t he himself a
result of the sense gratification of his parents? When I aim for the ultimate
gratification, the much cherished perpetual bliss, isn’t that a super
gratification? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Poor
sense pacifications, they are such a maligned entity. Their theoretical
negation forms the base all the endless stream of words in holy books and
scriptures. While the reality is that at the level of life’s manifestation, as
it’s on earth, how will you even survive without this faculty? These are merely
the faculties that have evolved with us in the game of survival. The key lies
in their balanced usage for a wholesome life. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Those
on the path of so-called spirituality start with an acute sense of some
imbalance, some pain, loss, bitterness. The latter are just results of
mismanaged, skewed usage of our natural faculties. I have seen very well-poised
and balanced people serving as hawkers and rickshaw pullers in crowded bazaars;
almost saintly in demeanor; at so much ease with whatever nature has given them
at the level of senses and their use. And I have seen high priests, the careerist
spiritualists, unfortunately most of them in fact, who are well decked up in the
armor of dharma and holy look, but peace is farthest from their eyes. Many of
them take a cute tumble with their lady followers. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It’s
only about being at ease with yourself; nothing less, nothing more. One can use
any kind of words to describe it. There is no end to words. They are the
products of the faculty of our mind only. Sometimes back an old sadhu was
ruminating that he got a nightfall which he considered a sin. Well, had you
been healthy in your ideas about sex and women, had been balanced in your ideas
and usage of this natural sense-born faculty, you won’t have been crying over
night falls in old age, I thought. It’s not about negating sense-born desires.
It’s not even about getting saturated with them. It’s all about balance. Like
when you eat. Not much to give you ache, not too less to starve you. Like
Buddha realized when he almost died after starving himself for months. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Learn
to be at ease dear brothers and sisters. If you are sitting in a brothel and
are at ease with yourself, you are your own saint. If you are occupying the
highest seat of a pontiff and itching with restlessness then you are a novice
still. So learn the art of being at ease with yourself wherever you are
situated. Balance. Balance. Balance. In everything that life offers. Accept.
Accept the windfalls of the pleasure of flesh with humility and gratitude and
pay back with sincere hard work. It’s a beautiful world because of the teasing
interplay of sensory desire seeking, not because of those who preach against it
and keep smoldering with desire within. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">You
dear seeker, you ought to feel obliged to the teasing ways of desires. You have
been given this beautiful life by an exciting play of desires between your
parents. I am sure they were not meditating while you got launched into the
womb. Desire is the force that’s catapulting the forces of creation and generation:
at the level of species in mating urge, and huge galaxies expanding at the
cosmic level. That’s the force that pulls this cosmos. Those who are running
away from life, relationships, needful responsibilities, mundane pleasures need
to remember that most of our gods, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rishis</i>
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">munis</i> had beautiful partners,
families and children. They are called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bhagwan</i>
because they used their energies in an optimum way and managed their sensual
faculties in the way they wanted. They used them in a balanced way instead of
falling imbalanced to one particular impulse. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In
balanced amount even poison serves like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">amrit</i>.
In imbalanced amount even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">amrit</i> turns
poison. A judicious mix of what nature has given is nothing short of
enlightenment. Why put your fate solely in the pages of holy books? They are
mere indicators, just creation of the minds who could write better than you and
me. So ease up. Just be. Accept what you are. Why negate? As the component of
being at ease builds up, the tendency to go into impulsive, imbalanced use of
sense pleasure faculties will get transformed itself. New neurological circuits
develop that drive more hormones of wellness through our system. It’s a very simple
physiological fact. Why interpret it to mythological proportions? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The
ultimate untroubled playfulness is a result of carefully nurtured well-balanced
use of our energies and sensorial faculties. We come to a ripening. The
impulses lose their meaning and desires drop off without pain like a ripe fruit
drops by itself. The senses and their potential for pleasure still remain in
the body but their use or no use means the same. They no longer drive our
thoughts, actions and emotions. You get a choice and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">use</i> doesn’t drive you crazy and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no-use</i>
doesn’t make you suffer. In a way one rises above that dimension. Call it
realization or enlightenment. It’s but merely more conscious, aware form of
living; just transformation of energies for a bit more refined thoughts and
emotions; a shift in perspective. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It
doesn’t mean I find people in the so-called worldly dimension as lowly placed.
Everything is just same in mother existence. It’s only about a choice to be
something extra if our present sense of existence makes us restless and we feel
something missing. It’s merely a choice to be at more ease with the self.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Just
learn to stay in the present. This is the ultimate meditation. No need to roam
in the Himalayas. Do it among the sweet-sour scent of humanity around you. It’s
almost always about what we had been or what we would be. Very rarely we are
what we are now. And thus dear brothers and sisters, we exit from the portals
of life as ignorant of its meaning as when we entered it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The
flower bud opens with a pining majesty. Infantile petals ready to be born for
one more fragrant, juicy season. The goddess of beauty opens another eye to see
this world with more colors. But the de-juicing black-bee is also around!
Things of beauty and joy are almost always accompanied by the greedy swirls of utilitarian
air—two aspects of duality. But that doesn’t mean the things of beauty and joy
shouldn’t smile and bloom.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I
know it disturbs many minds who have accepted the superiority of particular
paths in taking them to the exclusive class of refined and holy beings on
earth. That also is another form of ego: the desire to be in a state from where
the rest of humanity seems a group of meek ignorants who need reformation and
enlightenment. So take this slightly bitter pill of information with a glass of
water and be at ease. If your mind still feels disturbed then rethink about the
utility of gurus and scriptures who haven’t given you equanimity of mind to
even digest this. Then reboot. And smile. Then laugh. At yourself. It helps.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-68577439370789994582023-12-27T12:02:00.000+05:302023-12-27T12:02:03.733+05:30A skirmish in the village temple<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The village
temple seemed a sad affair. You cannot expect too much from a temple patronized
by farmers. From the same equation, you cannot afford to have an ambitious
priest in such a temple because the boons of rituals are meager. Some years
back an ageing priest arrived with his wife. Two of his elder children, a boy
and a girl, were already married and ran their separate houses. The returns from
the village temple were meager but the services were in the same league. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pandit ji</i> fumbled over mantras and
coughed terribly during <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">havan</i>
ceremonies because he was asthmatic. Since most of the farmers around the
temple loved liquor, so he went along the popular culture and started drinking
as well. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I
remember the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">havan</i> he performed on my
mother’s death anniversary. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">havan</i>
smoke triggered his asthma and as a result it was a rumbustious chanting of
coughs. Hardly any mantra was audible. In any case he knew a little set of
mantras which he repeated to good effect on all ceremonies ranging across
birth, death, marriage, engagements and house inaugurations. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Staying
among the farmers toughened his attitude by several notches. Earlier he would
have verbal potshots at his wife but now he would even launch a physical
assault sometimes. Then he fell ill and died leaving the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">panditayan</i> in charge of the temple. She did not know anything about
puja and rituals. The already neglected idols further slumped in neglect. Their
dresses developed a thick coating of dust. There were cobwebs around. Shiva’s
idol had a hole in thigh because someone left a lamp burning on it. Hanuman
being viewed as a wrestler and fond of food would be forced to eat. The
muscular idol’s mouth had eatables smitten on it and bees and wasps ate for his
sake. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">There
were voices of dissent against her conduct. The people had to bring a pundit
from outside the village for a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">havan </i>ceremony.
The majority of the villagers wanted her to leave the temple but four or five
families wanted her to stay. The offerings to the neglected gods were
sufficient to allow her a nice life of retirement. It became an issue and the two
groups would engage in brawls. Finally, the majority prevailed and she had to
go. During the conclusive brawl her supporter group of ladies advised her, ‘Before
you go, leave the village under your curse.’ So on the day of departure, when
her supportive group came to receive her farewell blessings, she showered her
beneficence over them. ‘All of you become like me,’ she said. It meant all of you
bear the same fate as me, roughly interpreted as being a widow and turning homeless.
Some women from the opposing group laughed, ‘You asked a curse for the village.
Since you are also part of the village, you too get your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">prashad</i> as well. A curse through a blessing on your head!’</span><o:p></o:p></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-41185023216652049162023-12-27T12:00:00.004+05:302023-12-27T12:00:29.214+05:30The story of an old man<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tau</i> Bhoopan has finished his innings
here on earth but the anecdotes he sired still fetch little nuggets of memories
from the deep abyss of the past. He had a penchant and flare for flirting with
norms. He was a certified flirtatious character; always water-mouthed for the
opposite gender till late in his old age. So most of his stories deal with his
disconcerting overtures to pacify and gratify the undying worms of desire in
him. The people seem forgiving and laugh about it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He
indeed was a character. He once came across an English sahib in the privacy of
acacia forest and finding him alone pounced upon him like a local panther
trying to redeem the native pride. Both of them were strong for each other and
huffing and puffing, unable to outdo the other, fell into a well. After a few
minutes of water slinging they realized the importance of truce to save their
lives. Then both of them yelled, joined the forces of vocal cords to draw
someone’s attention. The help won’t arrive for a few hours and meantime they
copiously consumed their quota of swearing, oath taking and cuss words in their
respective languages. Once they were fished out, they had antipodal reception.
Bhoopan was jailed for a few months and the Englishman was treated like a brave
prince. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">India
then became independent and Bhoopan would always claim that he had fought for
the country’s liberation from the foreign rule. In a free India, once Bhoopan
had opened a tea stall by the road outside the village. He would get up at four
in the morning, start fire in the hearth, set the kettle sizzling as a welcome
sign for his customers. But he always felt that the number of customers never
did justice to his seriousness about the job. He got itchy over the months and when
a military convoy passed the road his check dam broke. He fell in front of the
officer’s jeep and started crying profusely. The officer thought he was the most
wronged person in the area. He asked him about his grievance. A profusely
weeping Bhoopan told him about his plight, how the villagers were deliberately
ignoring him, as he thought, to make him go penniless. ‘Please point this
cannon towards the village once, please, you don’t have to fire, just the
cannon mouth towards them will teach them a lesson. They are cowards, they will
pee in their pants,’ he pleaded. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In
his sixties he was struggling as a sugarcane juice maker. A woman ordered a
glass of juice. He made it and while he was gloating over her figure a fly fell
into the glass. ‘See, you have put a fly in the glass,’ she angrily complained.
‘Of course, I cannot put an elephant in the glass,’ he countered from his side.
She threw away the glass which broke and paid him for the juice. ‘But what
about the fly and the broken grass?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pay
for them also. Those were costly items,’ he hollered.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">His
mischief got hugely manifested in mind, as his body grew old and the basic
instinct seeped into his old neurons from the body tissues. A young peasant
woman was showing her buffalo, which had been giving mating calls at night, to
a bull for calving and fresh milk in the family. It was a tiny grove of trees.
Her farmer husband was not at home and fearing a missed chance at getting the
buffalo seeded, she herself took charge of the situation. It would have been
embarrassing in the presence of someone but since there wasn’t anyone around
she tried her best to get the mating done. She pacified the buffalo into a
position and whistled to inspire the bull. She had after all seen the process
with stealthy eyes as the menfolk managed it. This bull was not that
experienced in the art. It was willing, was in the mood and repeatedly getting
on but missed the mark. She had seen how nonchalantly the menfolk would help
the faltering bull by holding the pizzle and putting it into the slot. But it
was a big block in her female mind, conditioned in the chains of patriarchy, to
get this particular thing done. She seemed in two minds. She blushed even
though there was nobody around. She moved her hand with determination but
seemed lacking the courage to do it as if she was scared of it. ‘Daughter, why
worry? It looks red and hot but it isn’t so. It won’t burn your hands,’ Bhoopan
the expert spoke from behind a tree trunk. He was considerably old by this time
and had expertly followed the trio, anticipating some fun that would tickle his
lusty bone. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Once,
this time older than before, he was urinating by a path. At a distance some peasant
women stopped waiting for him to get done. ‘Daughters, don’t worry. You can
safely pass. That which you are afraid of is firmly held by its neck,’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he assured them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As
he grew still older he would have lots of fights with his daughters-in-law, sons
and grandsons. And people would try to remind him that an old man shouldn’t
quarrel and fight with his family members. ‘If not the family, with whom should
I fight then? Russia and America? Sorry I’m not capable of that anymore,’ he would
say.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-4239689110001388002023-12-27T11:59:00.003+05:302023-12-27T11:59:28.125+05:30Fresh milk in a farmer's house<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">A
buffalo’s mating call is melodious to a farmer’s ears. It brings the prospects
of fresh milk to the family. At the slightest hint, the family patriarch runs
to hire the mating services of a mater (either a public bull like earlier or a
farmer’s domesticated bull presently). The males, as usual, are ready yearlong
with their ever-active passion.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It’s
the females who decide when the male luck will strike gold. Then sometimes
there are false alarms. Maybe the farmer misread the female cattle’s braying, grunts
and moans. Maybe it doesn’t like the husband presented to her to be the father
of her calf. The situation turns tricky when she kicks and gallops to deny the
water-mouthed bull any chance. The farmer gets irritated. They whistle. They
try to get them into proper mood. The buffalo is tamed into immobility by tying
her with ropes. I have seen farmers holding the bull’s pizzle to facilitate a
forced entry. And many such forced adventures turn out to be fruitless. And
then the bull gets a bad name. The aggrieved farmer, having paid for the
seedless adventure, casts aspersion on the mater buffalo. ‘The bull is
worthless, not fit for siring calves anymore,’ he taunts. To this the owner of
the bull cringes with such pain as if he himself has been called impotent and
sterile. </span><o:p></o:p></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-57956484704222371652023-12-27T11:57:00.003+05:302023-12-27T11:57:54.209+05:30Beauty and truth<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Truth
is the mind and beauty is the heart of the ultimate reality, if at all we can
have some terminology to comprehend it with our limited senses. And art
straddles the tenuous bridge holding truth and beauty together, binding each to
the other with almost a synonymous bond. Economics will hardly have any
valuation for truth, beauty and art. The beholders of truth, lovers of beauty
and practitioners of art may try to monetize their domains, but they mostly
fail. Truth, beauty and art stand, somewhere, in the bylanes, in almost
secluded corners, away from the mainstream commerce and monetization.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-58012440963824633302023-12-21T14:34:00.001+05:302023-12-21T14:34:08.365+05:30Ghosts floating in Tau's room<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> <span style="text-align: justify;">Tau Hoshiyar Sing is nearly hundred
and almost blind. Still he is smart and calculating enough to find his way
using the bigger landmarks still visible to him and go for walks without
tumbling even once. Sadly, he has met a tragedy at the far end of his honest,
hard-worked farmer life. He lost his eldest son, Randhir (in his late sixties).
Randhir was a very close friend of mine and a genuine well-wisher. So it’s a
big loss to me as well. </span><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’m sitting with Tau (uncle) in his
little room, he lying on his charpoy and me on a chair by his side. Irrespective
of age a parent would always feel the pain of losing his/her children. A slight
tremor in his voice makes me feel the pain inside him, but otherwise he is as
much composed like always, in full acceptance of life. His faith in God is as
firm as usual. In my limited experience, I find him one of the rarest people
who have such firm, rock-strong faith in the almighty even without going to a
temple or worshipping a deity. I have never seen him entering a temple in my
life, never performing a ritual, or going on a pilgrimage. But when I talk to
him about God, he takes the name of God with such reverence and hundred percent
confidence and honesty as to make him a highly spiritual person. And why won’t
it be? After all, he has produced crops by irrigating them with his sweat,
nurturing them with the nutrients of honesty and integrity. Nobody can point
out that he committed even a single mistake that hurt someone’s interests. Godliness
dawns in such people of its own. They are spirituality in practice, naturally,
by default. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Whenever I meet him I joke that he can
hardly see and uses his experience and smart brain to cross the streets and
make others believe that he is still able to see and present right there in the
race of life. And he always protests that he can ‘see’. So whenever I see him,
I stand in front of him, change my voice and ask him to recognize me. Of course
he fails to recognize me. When I laugh that see didn’t I tell you that you can
see far less than you claim, he would slowly, dismissively say, ‘I had seen you
clearly but I forgot your name because my memory is somewhat affected now.’ It
means Tau takes the importance of eyes far more than the mind. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So in a light-hearted manner even now
I’m prodding at his soft-spot regarding his eyesight. Then Tau is irritated a
bit and lowers his guard. He then gives me a clue as to why he is trying to
protect the honor of his eyes. ‘My right eye is almost gone. I can see only bigger
things hazily with my left eye. So this left eye gives me a slight idea of the
world around and allows me to walk. But all that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">adang-dhadang</i> (honky dory) stuff is visible to my blind right eye,’
Tau tells me. I get straightened up with interest. I know Tau has entered the talk
of the paranormal world even though he hardly believes in it. ‘I see much <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ulta-pulta</i> with this blind eye. Like many
people coming and going through the wall, appearing over the ceiling, someone going
to the barn to get fodder. They aren’t scary in any sense. All of them well
behaved. And always in clothes. The women also hold purdah over their face.
Earlier I used to get curious about them. But now I don’t even think about
them. They keep doing their business,’ Tau tells me with total indifference.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Well, his age seems to have given him
extra-sensory perception. He surely sees disembodied souls floating around.
After exiting the body, the individual consciousness still retains two elements
out of the five. These are air and ether. So the disembodied souls float around
with their two elements, carrying the predominant tendencies and inclinations
found in their five-element body before death. Time trapped, they say, they
float around to somehow fulfill the karmic balance before taking a body again.
They are mere bubbles of air and ether floating around, looking at alive humans
with jealousy for having a body and being able to carry out so many things.
While in their endeavor to do something, they can just float around and
sometimes interfere with the weakened energy systems in certain individuals.
But what will they do to a robust farmer like Tau? He is very much comfortable to
see them as companions during lonely nights in his little room. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But isn’t this interesting that old
Tau sees entities with his blind eye? By the way, he doesn’t believe in ghosts.
And what will ghosts do to someone who doesn’t even believe in them. Tau has
put all his belief in one super-entity—God. And that too without having to go
to a temple, without performing rituals, or going on pilgrimages. He has
established it—his faith—right there with a firm farmer’s foot. And the ghosts
play around him on lonely nights. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">‘You are lucky Tau in that you get a
free movie watching with your blind eye,’ I laughed. ‘Hmm!’ he intoned again
pretty dismissively. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-49709892971705796392023-12-21T13:34:00.004+05:302023-12-21T13:34:30.193+05:30Little Maira's small world<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large; text-align: justify;">Playing with my two-and-half years old
niece Maira is great fun. Coming down from the levels of burdensome intellect and
going down to meet her innocent joyful being is elevating and uplifting in many
ways. It seems going down but it’s going up in a substantial way. The joy up-shoots
like anything. One tastes ‘the lightness of being’. </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large; text-align: justify;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">A child will help you in breaking many
barriers that one has built around himself. As a clown with lisping tongue,
acting funny and speaking even funnier, you slay stress like a shiny knight in
armor. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">We are playing on the sunbathed
terrace on this balmy winter noon. A flock of Asian Pied Starlings floats
lazily in the sky. They chatter and twirl, taking gentle, unhurried turns and
loops in their flight. It’s a playful flight, not the one for survival and
sustenance. Little Maira goes ecstatic at the joyous sight. And here I’m
habitually trying to put more knowledge in her little brain. I point out that
these are Asian Pied Starlings. I repeat it many times so that she remembers the
name. Then I ask her what is their name, pointing to the flying flock. She is
worried for a moment. ‘Birds!’ she shouts and jumps with joy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Yes, birds they are. The simpler, the
better. Why get bothered about sophisticated nomenclature that our intellect-obsessed
mind carves so much for? Enjoy the creatures that fly as birds only. Or, in
Krishnamurti’s lingo, see them just as ‘life’. Nothing more, just plain life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Then Maira knows how to go suddenly
invisible right in front of your eyes. It’s a child’s magic. All she needs to
do is to put her little hands on her eyes and disappear from the world around.
It’s her beautiful truth that she too is invisible to others when she cannot see
anything around with closed eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">How I wish that we too had the belief
and conviction of a child in closing our eyes to all that is unbecoming and
painful! We can at least try to close our eyes to the painful past and go out
of its sight.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6662080271966186678.post-45144804338465903192023-12-20T16:43:00.005+05:302023-12-20T16:43:31.517+05:30The hawker<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Kala
walks, hawks and talks like an expert vegetable seller now. But if you make a
list of their success rank, he comes last. There are very serious quality
issues about his vegetables. ‘But how will I purchase better quality if you don’t
buy these from me, giving me some profit so that with the money I can get the
premium class,’ he says. Well, he has a point here and makes some sense in this.
To help people to give him more profit he generally overprices his substandard
veggies. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He
is from the village itself and more successful ones are migrant <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Biharis</i> who visit from the town. So he
brings personal touch in the bargain. He shouts people’s names also after the
list of his items. He would shout your name for ten days at a stretch. If you
never even say ‘no’ and stay hidden in your house, it doesn’t affect him. The
next day he would call you with the same sweetness. He called me for ten days
and I kept hiding. Finally my own conscience reproached me and I came out of my
hole like a crab from the seaside rocks. I could see his triumph for having
drawn me out. He gave me his severely substandard bananas at eighty rupees per
dozen. At the city you get very good ones at sixty rupees only. But then you
have to pay extra for being specially addressed by your name by a hawker. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">His
vegetable-hawking song went like this: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aloo</i>,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">piyaj</i>,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tamatar</i>,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bhindi</i>,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tori</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ghiya</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kheera</i> ... <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">suppee</i> (this one for my name Sufi). It
sounds like he’s selling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">suppee</i> along
with the vegetables.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Sufihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16989663822211848975noreply@blogger.com0