Pegs in brains, ropes around soul

The night was falling. A camel caravan was passing through a desert. The caravan-head decided to spend the night at a serai. There were hundred camels and the store wagon had pegs and ropes for each one of them to keep them safely tied though the night. Ninety-nine camels had been safely tethered in front of the inn. But they had lost one pair of rope and peg.

The caravan-head was much worried. If the camel was left untied it will run away and claim its freedom. He asked the inn-keeper for a rope and a peg. The old man had none. But he had a solution in his experienced mind. He asked the traveler to playact the whole process of setting the peg and tying the rope in the dark to the camel. The middle aged weather-beaten, tough traveler laughed at the joke. Still he decided to take it as a comedy even at the cost of losing a camel.

They made a false show of the process. Made sounds of hammering a peg into the ground. Then one of them fiddled around the camel’s neck, making it feel that it is being tied with a rope. Much to everyone’s relief the camel was found sitting comfortably next morning. It was almost a miracle. The camel had allowed himself to be tied to a non-existing peg with the invisible rope.

The caravan prepared to leave. They untied the ninety-nine camels and they got up to move onto the journey. Thinking that the hundredth camel will also get up to join the rest because it was already free, they didn’t approach it. The camels moved. The hundredth camel didn’t. The kicked it to get up but it won’t move. Much worried the caravan leader went to the old man and told him about the camel.

“What have you done to it. I know you performed a magic but please now set it free. We have to move. We are getting late,” he was almost folding his hands before the old serai-keeper.

The old man smiled. “You had tied him in the dark. Now you have to untie him in the light. Do you think pegs and ropes exist only in reality? They exist in minds as well. And the latter are stronger,” the old man chuckled.

The caravan-head understood. Thanking the old man he asked his men to playact the whole process of taking out the peg and untying the rope. They did it and the camel, taking it to be free to move, got up and joined others waiting to move.

Pegs and ropes exist in minds also. What else are our false assumptions, fears, anxieties and worries? They tame and condition the mind to a basic level, a very small level given the unlimited potential of the human brain. They literally make one human almost a carbon copy of others in settling for smallness, in being labeled like any other, like they do in factories, just labeling for small, convenient sameness.

It is very convenient for the religio-political ruling class to tame the minds with pegs and ropes of fear, ignorance, assumptions and apprehensions. Brahamanical Hinduism does the same. It is an elaborate system of putting the peg and tying the rope in the form of rituals, taboos, do’s and don’ts. The priestly class was ever apprehensive of the capacity of free minds. A huge effort was run over centuries to instill fear in minds, to cut them to smallness, to be less daring, more obedient, less creative. It was a systematic effort to create meek followers and stifle any trait of confidence and leadership. The Brahamanical orthodoxy hammered down pegs and tied ropes around meekly accepting necks.  

Religiosity was kept limited to the skin of mankind. A check-dam created to tame the free flow of the rivers of human spirit. No inward looking and self-realization to reach the light of an enlightened, aware soul. Elaborate system of pegs and ropes. So you just get conditioned to your inherited miseries, your caste status, your untouchability, your bad karma and the mirage of getting better luck in future births through meek following of the skin-deep religiosity. So that you just keep sitting, accepting your fate, like the camel with a false peg and rope. So that you don’t look deep into you and beyond the narrow confines of your outer world. So that your spirit doesn’t roam free, breaking the barriers of false fears and exploiting rituals.

We had a chance of practicing mindfulness, of breaking the shackles, of melting the fears, of realizing the potential, of being the leaders. It was Buddhism. Buddha taught nothing but mindfulness so that you become aware of your potential irrespective of your low caste. When you go beyond mere rituals and meditate, most of the false ropes and pegs burn away. You roam free as per the limits of your free-roaming and liberated mind.            

Unfortunately Buddhism was bundled out from the land of its origin. The shrewd Brahamanical connivance packed it off to faraway lands. It thrives in East Asian countries. You can very well compare the chained and liberated minds. Buddhism cuts the chains through training the mind. Brahamanical Hinduism chains the mind through fatal conditioning with the help of fear and meek acceptance.

Look at Japan! Such a small country. Look at their technological excellence. It is nothing but the fruits of centuries of avenues of setting the mind free, through training the brain. Meditation helps you reach the top of awareness, to know more, to dissipate ignorance, to be more of a human being, to become different and daring. Blind rituals are just the first step leading to the endless flight of stairs to evolution and freedom. Unfortunately Brahamanical  Hinduism just kept the people grounded at the first level. To keep them the prisoners of minds. Their selves chained to false pegs and ropes of fears and taboos.

Happy Holi!!

Happy Holi. Celebration of colors. Nothing symbolizes colors more than love. So if you want to move beyond the celebrations literally, take one more step towards celebrating it in spirit. Sprinkle the colors on your spirit. The colors of love, care, kindness, sympathy, empathy, compassion, forgiveness and understanding. A human soul needs these colors as much as our skins pine for gulal on Holi. Involve your soul in celebrations also. Drive out the black color of hate and imbue yourself with vibrant colors of humanity and tolerance.

It may take some effort to better your worldly conditions, your profession, your job and your business. But it is really simple and easy to turn for the better as a human being. It doesn’t carry any cost. It comes free. It doesn’t even need time and drill of effort. Just aim the pichkari at your soul. Let out a spurt of colors. Only this much. Job is done. It will drive out the shades of dark and gray. Smile more. Smile over someone’s luck even if you are still waiting for your own. It will arrive shortly, changing your smile to laughter. Forgive your enemies. Look at them with a smile. They will be shamefaced of their dark thoughts about you. Feel happy just to be alive and healthy. The problems of life will seem just routine investments of effort as much as you invest in climbing a flight of stairs.

Religious hatred has killed more people than the number of souls who have received real peace from religion. Religious divides keep on killing like in medieval times. So where is the advancement? The only way left out for humanity is inter-religious harmony. Festivals are the bridges. Abandon your hate and allow the colors to reach the other side as well. Put the festivals out of the barricade. Let it be for everybody.

During Mughal period, Muslim emperors and courtiers sprinkled abeer and gulal. It fell on people of all faiths. Colored waters of tesu flowers sprinkled spring-time festivity on mundane clothes of a common humanity. It was Holi as well as Gulabi Eid. Festivities merged.

Wishing everybody a very happy Holi! When you take a bath after the celebrations, please ensure you retain the colors of a better human being on your spirit. 

Traps of self-annihilation

You must be really happy. You take pride in the fact that you don’t smoke, don’t drink, exercise daily and keep up a best diet plan. So everything is supposed to be OK on the health front. O wait. You may still be ingesting toxins into your body. Slow poisoning stretched over a period of years.

Long after the symptoms become visible, quite ironically, the thing responsible might still stand unaccused, putting blame on more tangible things like lifestyle, diet, pollution, biological accident, etc., etc. It’s better to know this unseen source of suffering. It’s the uncontrolled mind. It’s as potent a risk factor as any other visible agent of ill health like smoking, drinking, imbalanced lifestyle, or accidents.

The consequences of an uncontrolled mind are no accident. This self-destruction takes a long and winding route to its destination. The spin-outs of an uncontrolled mind—hate, anger, greed, jealousy, impulsiveness, anxiety, worries, illusions and false assumptions—are as bad for our body as they are for the social life we lead. It’s even better to be an alcoholic or smoker than having an untamed mind. An unkempt mind fluxes toxins into our blood stream, corroding the basic principles of self-preservation. It’s unnatural.

What is mind? It’s just the operational aspect of our brain. Put up the operations in order. The brain will save yourself from becoming a self-destroyer. Long before there is any outside enemy, we have to spot the enemy inside, the trait of being utterly irresponsible towards our mind. That is the real enemy. Put it in order. The outer world is a mere reflection of the invisible world inside. Hold the reins of your mind firmly and you become the master of your destiny.

The challenge lies not in trying to control the external environment. The real task lies in managing the mind. Isn’t it mere folly that the thing that keeps the potential to limitless happiness is allowed to go out of loop and spin into a chaotic trajectory where it releases poison into our organs?

We spend literally 24 hours to control the external things in life and hardly anyone tries to control the ticking time bomb of our doom inside. The fire that is supposed to power us to excellence is hardly managed. No wonder it becomes the pyre of self-annihilation. You fight so hard to manage the worldly affairs. And you hardly care about the management of the world inside you. The guiding flicker of life, the patronizing beam having limitless potential to infinite happiness, goes out of control and becomes a wild fire. A fire out of control is destructive. It’s useful as long as it’s managed. The mind is like that fire. Tend it. Manage it. Keep an eye on it. And you will have its life-giving warmth and path-showing light for you.

It doesn’t take too much of an effort. It’s nothing in comparison to the huge effort you put in managing the world outside. It doesn’t need your sweat and blood of worldly battles. It just needs half an hour of quiet contemplation, the time even less than you might just spend in thinking about your enemy and visualize doom and destruction to him.

All it needs you is to stop running, close eyes, put up a smile on your lips, look inwards, feel your breathing and walk silently to your real self. The closer you reach that core, the foundation of your real self, healthier you become in mind and body. The better the inner world, the better still will be the external circumstances related to you.

Inhale peace and tranquility. Douse the ravaging fire. Turn it into a soulful bonfire and you like a fatigued traveler basking in healing and peace by its side while the snowy blizzards hit around. Dive deep. Leave the turbulent and disturbed surface and move towards the unmoving bottom. You will discover the futility of just wasting life on the storms on the surface.

Once you come out on the surface after the deep contemplative dive, the world outside will not be the scary choppy sea. It will be a playground of excitement. Life will be fun. Struggles will become just a game to be enjoyed. Turn life into an enjoyable game. Don’t allow it to turn into an agonizing struggle.

All it needs is just a daily dose for the mind. Some quiet moments when you leave the visible and go into the embrace of the invisible. When you go into the source of your creation and emerge almost reborn.

Are God and Satan the same under democracy?

Democracy, by modern day consensus, is the best—among others—form of governance. With some skepticism, it is agreed that it is best among the worst. It even appears so. But that doesn’t mean all is well with democracy. No system is perfect. Perfection is just a mirage. But like all political systems democracy also can be better.

My main issue with democracy is with the same voting weight carried by all individuals as voters. The best and the worst carry the same political weight, at least as voters, when it comes to contributing to the process of selecting the most suitable representatives and hence the best government. Isn’t it ironical that the people who have been fatal for society carry the same political weight as the ones who have been of real help to the society as voters? Shouldn’t the weight of votes vary as per the contribution or potential of individual voters?

Under the present system of voting Hitler, Stalin and Edi Amin, responsible for the deaths of millions of innocent lives, carry the same vote weight as the healers of humanity like Gandhi, Bose, Buddha, Jesus and Mohammad. Shouldn’t the people with proven records of being better human beings, having better understanding of the issues of common interests, have more voting power than the criminals, social degenerates and blood-shedders.

Common people, busy in the small domain of life to survive, carrying the good and bad in them, can have the value of one to their vote. The criminals, terrorists, law breakers and hate-mongers can have fraction of one in proportion to their crimes. And achievers and contributors in academics, sports, arts, science and culture can have the multiple of one to their vote. The latter with their better selves, more awareness and more constructive nature will turn the game of democracy far more dynamic and vibrant than it is now.

Since the best and the worst just occupy the minority edges of society in terms of numbers, it will not shake the present system’s foundations immediately. But it will act as a system of reward and punishment for the majority to maintain and improve their political ratings. Who doesn’t want to grow? And certifiedly more so. A better political rating on the basis of standing and achievement in life will look good on anybody’s CV. It will be as good holding doctorate degrees, gold medals and mushy citations. A cut in the voting right, and rating coming to a fraction of one, will add to scores of other deterrents that stop a person from going the wrong side to be lesser of a human being in all its forms.

A voting right cannot be static. It cannot be frozen for all times irrespective of best and the worst deeds of the holders. In case a person comes out worst, it should be abrogated altogether. In case of glorious achievement, the person should have multiple of one. It is a suitable political reward. It’s better to have a Hitler without any voting right. Still more suitable to have Mother Teresa with multiple of one voting right.

The Election Commission has to turn the voting right a bit dynamic with the possibilities of upgrade and degrade and even outright abrogation. It will save democracy from being the puppet of poor choices where masses, hardly knowing what they are voting for, hardly knowing the issues involves, get swayed by selfish rhetoric and emotional rabble rousing to elect pitiable leaders to power.

The differential voting rights will carry the democracy to the next stage. The elected representatives will be better and people will have one more push to be better.

The superbugs of death

There is a methodology of driving the evil, first, out of your body, second, your mind, and consequently out of your soul.

At the level of the body, the visible world, put up a conscious effort to avoid doing anything bad that may hurt someone in its multiple meanings, the physical, economical, emotional and social. Avoidance of bad at this level will help you be a law-abiding citizen. It will give you a clean social image. These are required to keep you motivated and bound to the path leading to the next level of goodness, or the path to taming the evil.

Taming the evil at the level of mind is a bit tougher. Thoughts come more rampantly than actions. It’s basically a free float. In fact these are even more suitable outlets of the bad. We can think bad to any extent in the hidden corners of our mind. We can plan any sinister scheme in the safe secrecy of our brain. We can hate anybody to any extent inside us. We can burn in jealousy about anybody on the earth. This mode of letting out badness is even more tempting because, unlike badness in action which might get us punishment at the hands of law or fall in our public image, this channel of hate does not carry the risks of such immediate, visible punishments. It but harms us in more ways than we can ever think of. The punishment crawls slowly, silently. And it is poisonous. All these negative emotions of hate, jealousy, frustration, fears, apprehensions, illusions and assumptions let out toxics on the impulse of our brain. By engaging in such thinking you are bombarding your own body with chemical weapons. You are your own enemy before anyone else. You are putting your gun at your own poor head. Slowly over a period of time these poisons, the unseen punishments of uncontrolled evil thoughts, eat away the body. Our brain, the seat of unrestricted potential to be good to the self and others, becomes the ticking bomb, letting out toxins in our blood stream, eating our vitality, our strength and drawing us to a frustrated death. That is the cruel most punishment. Your own brain letting out poison in your body. And our thoughts are the trigger for this.

So driving out the evil at the level of ideas and thoughts is utmost important. Right from our birth, life is all about bypassing the snares of mortality. But the inherent meaning of life is to find happiness while we avoid the snares of death. You cannot find happiness in any corner of this world, under any material comfort if your thoughts are plagued with the virus of evil, the bugs of hate, jealousy, selfishness and anger. We cannot avoid death. It will come. But we can turn it meaningless. The success of death lies in giving us a painful feeling that life was meaningless at the last breath. IF we die with a feeling that life has been worth it, we deny death its final laugh. Life prevails over death in this regard. Because there is journey after the interruption. We can do justice to life by being happy, and making others happy as well along the way, and be loving. There can be no other meaning of life.

So train your mind for better thoughts, better emotions. It will help your brain becoming a launch pad of creativity instead of a toxic tool of death. Meditation is the first step in taming the restlessness which is basically the foundation of the evil in the mind. Dislodge it from its seat. Sit down and practice restfulness. Calm your mind. Give it a space as you contemplate peace. As much as bugs of death are ever eager to finish their task of chucking out organisms and lives, the angels of healing are even more eager to sustain life. And the seat of healing is in love, in caring, in positive emotions. Allow yourself some time of stillness, repose and rest, the angels of healing, the agents of life, the couriers of love will cure you.

The practice of love and rest in thoughts leads to a healthier soul. It nourishes the souls as much as it heals the body. As a loving person you become a flower. Spreading fragrance and beauty. As a hateful individual you become a thorn. Drawing blood from the feet that are leading to their destination. Both die anyway. But look at the roles they play while in their journey.

Coming out of the cave sic grave

I come out of the tunnel. And see light. I smile and have a restful inhale of the fresh air. I open my arms and embrace this world, my world. It welcomes me back with a brotherly hug. I smile again and close my eyes to look inward. I take a sip of peace from the sea of tranquility and open eyes. The world has changed. It’s far better now. I have changed my eyes to look at it differently.

It was dark and intimidating. It was as much frightening and intimidating as it was painful. The tunnel was as much dug by the external circumstances as the negative tools of my own mind. I had entered a cave. A little recess in the mountainside of life. A routine trouble in life. Then I became my own enemy and started digging earth in the direction I shouldn’t have. I was digging a tunnel. An aimless futile struggle. My depressed, bruised mind moving earth faster and faster. It was taking me deeper into the womb of darkness. It was like digging my own grave. A bruised brain and injured mind are the potent tools of a self-grave digger.

Sweating, soiled clothes, aching limbs, now I come on the other side. On the other side of the mountain of life. Out of the self-dug cave that almost became a grave. Life has changed its meaning. The poles have reversed. I take credit for the small act of having kept on the digging job. It’s a new beginning. I know myself better. It’s a new sun. The air is so fresh. The earlier life seems futile. All this self-grave digging job. But as I close my eyes, a feeble smile on my lips, and inhale the essence of a new, redefined life, the journey seems worth it. Life is almost on a pause now. So slow in motion that I see the marvels of nature around. They are for me as much as they are for everybody. The spring sun kissing the winter-beaten leaves. Songs of birds. Gentle breeze and the swirls of a footloose bird in the sea of cool air. Bits of peace lying around.

I inhale the fathomless fragrance of peace, harmony and integrity from the farthest part of the cosmos. Cosmic harmony. Endless orderliness in orbits. Ever-going periodicity. Supportive harmony. Fury of explosions and astronomical speeds tamed to harmless, slow acts of space-time continuum. Me and my environment feel like an iota of this cosmic harmony. I allow myself a gentle smile. Ripples of peace cascade through my soul. I close my eyes again and look inwards. Deeper than the superficial world of my body and my worldly circumstances. I can travel far deeper than I ever thought. There are undisturbed paths leading to my true self. It’s a replica of cosmic orderliness. I am on the path to meet my true self. The self that is destined to be happy and at peace with itself.

It awaits there, the self, with unlimited dose of happiness, comfort, compassion and peace. We only deny ourselves the dose of this cosmic healing pill by looking out on this world. The superficial world of frustration, jealousy, hate, futile rat race, mundane cravings, illusions, assumptions, fears, apprehensions and cravings. It doesn’t allow us to smile, to close eyes and start the journey inward. No wonder we have hardly travelled in the real sense even if we are lucky to spend hundred years of chronological time in a lifetime. The journey to the real inner self, on the other hand, is not bound by the puny limits of time and funny horizons of space. It’s open and there are unlimited dimensions. In minutes one covers cosmic distances. And when you smile and look at this world outside, you see a replica, a reflection of the inherent beauty. You are better now and happier. You look at this world with a healthier mind and sturdier brain. More importantly you have a better heart. You are capable of loving more and hating less. The hallmark and definition of a human being.

There is something good at the end of it

There is light beyond the deepest dark depth,
There is a bright day after the ghostly haunts of nightmarish night,
After a barren famished fight there is a blossomed springed delight,
After pining pangs of separation there is a worthy end to the desperation,
After crashing in the gutters there is a surge and rise to bathe in holy waters,
After crying convulsions on the lips, a smile takes honeyed sips,
After the last deafest, still there is an undying urge to accomplish the feat,
Even when blind with despair, there is hope hiding and cajoling somewhere,
Even in hate love still lurks somewhere!!!!

A smile on your lips

A smile is like the sun on a cold, frigid, gray day. Comforting. Warm. Healing. It dispels the gloom. It absorbs the pain. It touches you with sympathy. It becomes your nonjudgmental confidante. You may not be enjoying a rollercoaster ride in life. There are pains and problems and of course you feel like crying. Of course you are not in a position to laugh. But you can smile. Just to yourself. Without any reason. Or at least try. Even a fake, feeble smile will do. It reshapes the mask of your tensions, your worries. You will instantly feel its warmth, its light. It cannot be the other way. Even a fake smile cannot give you pain, cannot aggravate your messiness however hard is the situation. Give yourself a reason to smile. Forget about the little world of your problems. The world around you is too big. And you are a part of it bounty. The things of beauty are as good for you as are for any other happy person around. Claim your share. Observe. Look around. Pick out from the unassuming treasure lying around in bits and pieces. A flower. A bird chirping. A gust of breeze. Some green tree. A sparrow’s free dart in the sky, a child’s pure smile, the sun, the stars, someone helping somebody. There are infinite reasons to let a smile kiss your lips, to help you, to sympathize, to emphasize. Just open up the door for smile. It will open up a huge gate of comfort for the inner self. Light will enter the dungeon of real and imaginary problems. There is no logic for this. It just happens. Just like you feel the healing warmth of sunrays on a cold day. Try to smile without reason. Immediately you will get a feeling of so many things to be smiled at, to be felt euphoric about, or even laugh about.     

Cow candies in patriotic barn

An effort at inciting hate is always condemnable. Be it the leftists who bind a soul to the red book so tightly that even violent options become defendable for the cause of principles cast in iron. So communists see class enemies, there are purgings, extrajudicial killings, dictatorships. Or be it the rightists, who insight phobias, sloganeering for some mythical past, blaming some section for the present woes, show exclusivist dreams. Or be it the poison-sprouting mullahs in mosques, who raise fiery speech to blur the line between faith and fundamentalist blindness. All extremist ideologies thrive on creating hate, turning a human being against a fellow human being, on flimsy, assumed, disillusioning grounds.  

There are cow patriots in Haryana. In a country where millions go deprived of even the most basic facilities, where people die for lack of clean drinking water and basic healthcare, the mythical love for cow sounds misplaced. Of course, as an animal, and like any other animal for that matter, cow needs better days, better pastures, better economical use. But cow as an instrument of fake nationalism. It sounds unjustified. Haryana government has even constituted a cow commission. But there could have been a commission for stray, homeless humans as well. In our city Sonipat, there are more stray humans than stray cows. The cow commission allocated funds. Just like the favourite Indian trait of turning any institution into the instrument of embezzling public money, it also serves as a means of siphoning funds for those in good books. There are lampoons and semi-criminalized fit-for-nothings, who having run after the saffron brigade during the election time, get reward for their patriotic loyalty. They get money to open cow shelters and cow care centres. No wonder the budgeted amount is multiple times than the amount actually spent.

They opened a cow shelter on the outskirts of the city. A good set up.  At least apparently so. A minister inaugurated the cow shelter with a fiery patriotic speech. The euphoria over cow welfare but fell too heavily on the head of a poor watchman just on the third day after the speech. The poor guy died. The main gate crashed on him. You can imagine the level of construction material. There are just a few cows in the big facility. Rest of them roam the city with stray dogs and humans like before. Nothing has changed in reality. But a lot has changed on paper. Pseudo-nationalism you know. And cow shelters proof of that. Another idler, who had been tailing after the ideologues, got a big grant to run a cow hospital. He has set up just a facility in the name of it. Groups of drunkards drink there. Cows, where? You will question if you step into it. Those who can't love people from other religions, how can you expect them to be caring for animals. Poor cow. Just a political pawn. So is Ram Mandir. So is national anthem. Oofs. What a cheap candy type nationalism. Served to the masses. Eat the candy and spit out hate. And vote for us of course. A person blinded by hate is easily taken by political tricks. Let's hope UP results put a check to their sham nationalism, forcing them to opt for healthy one, where people are progressive, loving, receptive..    

There are many eager souls to do something for the country. Feelings apart, they are incapable of doing hardly anything, not even leading the life of a law-abiding, self-responsible citizen. Following the basic principles of humanity, doing just as much as to follow the rules and regulations even if there is no chance of penalty in sight. The blood is but on boil for the cause of the nation. They fight pitched battles on social media. It won’t so much as give them the pain of a mosquito bite. It is hundred percent risk free. No dangers. All you have to do is to like, forward and gloat over hate messages. And stamp with a vote. You then become a patriot. Beyond that you can go out, take bribe, grease palms with corrupt money, break queues, eve-tease, molest, urinate anywhere, use road like it’s your courtyard driveway, pass remarks, shout, holler, do whatever. Your conscience is clear. You are a patriot. Because you just hate the perceived enemy. That is your contribution to nation-building. Still left with surplus patriotic energy, you go out and mix with ABVP zealots and attack other students who are not as patriotic as you because they have not picked up the toy gun for patriotic fun. For the extra-energied patriots there is a possible hangout. Breakroom. Gurgaon sector 29. Operated by Sanwari Gupta. Go there and smash out your hate and frustration on junk TV, microwave, radio, etc. It will soothe the angry man in you. The blood on boil will cool. And utter sense of heroism will prevail as you smash the screen. It can be a suitable punch-bag for the paper tigers of pseudo-nationalism. After pouring out hate and frustration you will come out happier and, possibly, more loving beings. You might even go beyond the tools of fake nationalism like Ram Mandir, cows and national anthem, and do something more important for this country.

A well-timed realisation

Sometimes you have to nearly die to discover the meaning of life.

Dalit-Muslim-Tribals Vs. Brahamanical Hinduism

Pseudoism is the art and craft of using a positive emotion, feel-good verb, or a relaxing sentiment, picking its hypothetical meaning in letter, and grafting it over the mean spirit. The spirit to dominate, to manipulate, to rule at any cost, the end justifying the means. It becomes a blindfolding instrument. No wonder, pseudoism is a suitable device with power aspirations particularly. Pseudo-secularists have cashed minority fears. The stroke inexistent phobias. They want the minority to stay scared. They keep the apprehensions and insecurities alive, to turn these into votes at the election time.  Now is the turn of pseudo-nationalists. The latter create a rhetorical stage, offering people a feeling to contribute to the nation. It’s a stage set for papery heroism, where one can contribute to national glory without putting anything at stake, without any risks either. It’s a goody goody dream-world. You shout slogans, you pour hate on social media, you condone the acts of violence against your target, you claim to be more patriotic than others. That’s it. You need not do more. Shouting amidst the frenzied crowd, like it’s a picnic outing and this a new entertainment game, is all that it takes to be a nation-builder. You are supposed to stand to the national anthem before the movie starts. You do it and you are a patriot. Doesn’t matter if straightaway after that you elbow the girl in the next seat, or rub your leg against hers on the pretext of extending your limbs out of boredom. These liberties and many more. You can be a simple law-breaking chit of a human being in scores of daily routine, like violating traffic rules, passing lewd remarks at women, scattering garbage, peeing in the open. All this doesn’t matter as long as you ride the bandwagon of pseudo-nationalism. It’s very easy to fall in this trap. Who doesn’t want to keep the belief that he/she is contributing to nation building. Feelings apart, only a little section can do actually so in practice. Rest can take this sip in the meow meow on offer on the stage of populist rhetoric. This risk-free nationalistic spirit but comes at a big cost. Little do people realize that by the time they are still enjoying the echo of their slogans, they have already crossed a line to enter a zone of practiced mass-hate. They are getting trained for being less loving, less tolerant, and hence lesser human beings than they could have been otherwise. Even before they realize the slightest change, they have already surrendered a part of their good self. They are smaller than they were before. Something gets cut off from the real self. They get polarized. The vision is skewed, not open-minded exuberance required for healthy mind and creative spirit. They are just a diminished self of their former self. The society gets a fracture. It's painful. The current wave of pseudo-nationalism led by the Brahamanical Hindu resurgence has many takers, especially the younger generations. Not surprisingly. When hormones are yet to stabilize, the stage is shaking, the world is a shaky vision, they, the youngsters, need to pour out their straying energies. Papery nationalism is a suitable means. It makes them paper tigers. They are exploring. They get the pill, pick it up, savour it. It’s tasty. It’s even better than alcohol in fogging the mind into delusions. They thunder and roar against imaginative foes. They hunt down invisible enemies of the state through hate speech, by clapping stray killings here and there, by condoning acts of violence, arson and shouts here and there. Brahamanical Hindu led pseudo-nationalism is particularly trying at the communal level. Islamo-phobia is the common ground in the strategy. Little do they realize that within the Hindu society itself, there are sections that have been exploited for thousands of years by their own co-religioners. Dalits and tribals, the frozen class, with fates frozen at the sub-human levels for generations, have as much to grudge over caste-based exploitation, discrimination and humiliation, as a fundamentalist Islamist might have against other religions. Dalit-Muslim-Tribals, the super-entity which can easily identify with discrimination, have much in common in terms of discrimination, systematic second-hand treatment and exploitation. In Indian politics, there are permutations and combinations of caste and communal identities. These shift over and acquire strange shapes. The latest can be Dalit-Muslim-Tribals. Muslims safely ensconced in the trio. The lethality of Islam-phobia melting in the historical wrongs against the frozen class in the Indian society. Some strange mutant of Congress, leftists and other non-BJP regional parties can be formed. Overblown Brahamanical Hinduism, having the exploitation of its own lower society as the core, can fuel a new trend in political jugglery.

Pseudo-nationalism and the seeds of poison

So the pseudo-nationalists are nurturing hate. They are sowing its seeds in young minds. In big volume and at an alarming rate. The seeds are sprinkled on the fertile soil of social media. Youngsters are conveniently taking bites. It’s exciting like having pizza and girl/boy-friend. They are mixing it with post-modern popular culture. Quit strangely, in the pot on boil, where differences are expected to melt to a integrated mass, differences are burning at different temperatures. Hate is a convenient tool to blind one to logic and sanity. Consumed by hate one is just a part of the human being he/she is otherwise. It combusts the basic moisture of being a humane. Some core of goodness evaporates. Before dividing communities and individuals, it fractionalizes the carrier of hate itself. As the rhetorical juggernaut carried by the agents of pseudo-nationalism—as funny, quirky and politically self-seeking as the pseudo-secularists—moves on, divisions in the Indian society take even more dangerous turns. People beating those not ready to stand up to the national anthem, mobs lynching the rumored beef carriers, ABVP members attacking a literary gathering at Ramjas college where somebody might have expressed a different point of view. These are as petty and self-seeking pills of intoxication, as are the mild dose of self-gratifying sips popped in by pseudo-secularists. The sky-high stack of the fodder of division in the Indian society is always pining for the matchlock of somebody’s ambition. It then bursts forth. It explodes. People suffer, but someone gets power. Hate has been the instrument of Indian political system, as much as it was responsible for partition at the time of independence. Hate as a power-grabbing instrument has been the favorite tool of ruling aspirants. Jinnah stroked the division on religious grounds and ran away with a new country itself. Political parties have ruled the roost over decades just by stamping caste, creed, communal and regional identities through pandering divisiveness, by boosting hate, by augmenting distrust. The famed Indian diversity is always a cache of ammunition. It’s a pile of divisions lying there to catch fire and blast. Waiting for some power aspirant’s matchbox of ambition. To fuel divisions. To pamper insecurities. To turn people blind and crazy. Much as Hindu pseudo-nationalists try to sow seeds of distrust into the fiery souls of the younger generation, they hardly realize cultivation of hate cannot be compartmentalized for a particular community only. Grooming of hate in an individual changes the character over all. Its repercussions are not just limited to the targeted community. It crosses the immediate object to seep over into life generally, into interpersonal relationships, views on life. It breeds an insecure, selfish persona, who isn’t just apt in spewing out angry rhetoric against the targeted community, but who is equally bitter in dealing with people of his own community. Division by hate is a chain reaction. It consumes all. It doesn’t just stop at the first line of the targeted community. It spreads further to gobble up all at the next stages. The identity-based political parties of India but just take interest in the immediate line of division. It gets them votes. It perpetuates their goal of sticking to power. Little do they realize that by breeding a culture of hate, division and distrust they are letting loose a fire that consumes the ethos of a healthy society. It eats the basics of a strong social system. It lets loose an ever-smoldering fire that takes its toll over decades. It kills dreams. It stifles the openness and exuberance of character capable of doing good to others as much as it means for the self. Building roads, boosting infrastructure, strengthening manufacturing are as much important as a healthy society. The former are for the latter, and not vice versa. It’s high time that pseudo-nationalists realize the futility of rabble rousing in a divided house. If they really want a strong India, they should sow the seeds of love, receptivity and accommodation. Hate-mongering is terribly counter-productive. It’s as good as just to put the ruling seat under your bum. After that it evil effects go across the society, where the divisions of caste, class and creed do not matter. All suffer.       

Self-seekers

Starting with my friend's message. A metro ride this morning on her way to office:

"Started my day on a good note by offering my seat to a heavily pregnant woman....she was leaning against the pole and looking so exhausted at the start of the day....such robust young and old men, shameless enuf not to even ask whether she wud sit...they just pretend not to have seen....such small things tell u to what extent people r selfish for their own comfort....

Even other women are so insensitive....looking away so that they don't hav to offer a seat...."

Well that proves my diagnosis of commonest of common Indian trait of petty selfishness. A result of too much of population for ever falling short resources, I suppose. Everything falls short of expectations. Metros, buses, roads, jobs, bread, butter, the endless list. People just never have enough. It breeds discontentment. A sinister apathy for the cause of the fellow sufferers in the crowd creeps in. It narrows the vision. It clogs the spirit. You just cannot see beyond the small platform of your own struggle. It breeds very unhealthy personalities. Clinging to their own little grabs is the skill they get versed in over years in their lives. Then it becomes a very selfish mass. The terrible self-seekers. Incapable of grasping the civic sense of any cause that lies outside their own. People get basically so absorbed in their own world that the senses which allow them to perceive the world around don't work at all when it comes to fellow human beings. It is criminally callous. This attitude. Indians seem to be very tiny hearted. There are hundreds of little incidents daily which prove it more and more.

Grains of Truth

There doesn't seem to be a universal truth. If at all it exists, it is still lost in the infinite cosmic spread. All we have is the scattered grains of perceived truths. My truth, your truth, his truth, her truth, their truth. Bits and pieces of truth, picked up for convenience, for suitability. Truth is a mundane piece of daily utility, as much suitable as the food we take as per our body types and socio-economic circumstances. Forget about the most justifiable of truths. The most we can do is to get an average of all truths, a mathematical average, a common truth. But my truth can be false for someone else, and vice versa. Truth and falsehood, recurring shadow and substance. Sometimes falsehood is the shadow. Oftentimes truth is the shadow. But they are always nearby. Touching each other like the shadow clings to the substance. Both have their suitors simultaneously. Someone holds the substance for support. At the same time someone takes shelter in the shadow to cling to his utility.

Jat-Muslim combine in Haryana

As much as Congress meant corruption, BJP means 'bhai chara bigado'. The latter has to aggravate social tensions in the Indian society. India's has been a highly segregated society. The caste system created a highly compartmentalized society, so much so that the exploitation of the lower castes passes off as a God-ordained system of lower and higher karma. India is at least half a century away from a casteless society. It will not be possible before that to rid Indian society from this ancient scourge. Simply because democracy here and the political parties set up on caste and communal lines need the system of discrimination to survive ad excel in politics. The BJP thrives on polarization, the oldest mantra with rulers. They divide along any line of separation visible. Like in UP, where it is Muslims and Hindus, in Haryana they have smartly allowed Hindu society to be divided as Jats and nonjats. They are eyeing 74% of nonjats. February last year the govt didn't do anything to stop Jats from destroying properties of nonjats. They wanted a violent episode, an episode of loss of life and property and most importantly Bhai chara, to keep the fire of divisiveness among Jats and nonjats burning. Jats have now literally become Hindu-Muslims of Haryana, almost hated by nonjats enblock. BJP's shock tactics of dividing society means at least I am far more moderate than earlier. With corruption Congress tainted the very soul of Indian democracy. Let's see where polarizing forces let loose by BJP take us. It can be far more lethal for Indian society. One more thing, Jats may find bonhomie with Muslims of Southern Haryana. Both have there own set of real and imaginary woes against BJP. It will take the total Jat-Muslim combine above 30%, a formidable force. The politics of pupulistic rhetoric, BJP's trademark, may not find many takers in Haryana because the most suitable section culpable to be swayed by sentimental rhetoric, the Jats, given their ever-on-the edge temperament and raw attitude, is feeling left out in the opposite corner in BJP's scheme of polarization.  

The women of France under Nazi shadows

There is crime and there is punishment. The crime, full stop. It's a criminal act. A lethal abstract. It cannot be reversed. Spinning out of hate, lust and greed, and all the wrong colors of the soul. Punishment cannot right the wrong. There is hardly any redemption. Punishment is a poor instrument of deterrence, and most often it fails even in that. Going above the man-made instruments of punishments, we have the divine system of justice. For crimes, where man-made system of justice fails to deliver redemption, we expect the divinity to set it right. But what of mass crimes? What of Nazi Holocausts, communist purgings, religious and racial genocides? The equation of right and wrong loses its meaning. These are the black holes. They suck any semblance of justice. It spins in its own gory world of hate and blood. No light of justice escapes. It's just a dark monolith, a crime. A massive wrong. Forget about mankind's justice, even the wildest stretch of faith in divine redemption fails to get even an iota of justice. Does it mean that the mass crime stands unredeemed? Forever. Does it just keep casting its shadows over the present, creeping into the future, almost forever. Just waiting to be redeemed. And forgotten finally. Or forgiven more suitably.

The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah. A song of humanity amidst mass crime. A ray of hope for the lost. A redemption for the innocent millions who were wiped out because they attracted the greatest affliction of human mind, someone's hate. A depiction of human hate and lust for power in Nazi occupied France in second world war. France is virtually menless. Men are in prison. Women hold the baton of life. They have to keep love alive in their wombs. It's loss and loss everywhere. And monstrous brutalities. They have to hide fistful of love, of humanity, of forgiveness deep inside their tortured selves. It will be required to rebuild life after the devastation. All major destruction is caused by the criminal acts of men. It's for the women to pick up the scattered pieces and again make a home for man. For a husband, for parents, for children, for brother, for sister.

It's a dark cloud hanging over, taking their smiles away. They are wives, mothers, daughters, sisters and lovers. But only in memory. The males who identify them as such are missing. They have to survive. When they can no longer fight to save their bodies, they fight to save their souls. For future. For the victory of humanity over monstrosity. For their men. To give them fresh lease of life, food, shelter and the strong love of a woman, if at all they return after war. Forget about redemption. The survival of love in a woman's heart for her man, despite all the wrongs to her body in his absence, is still a better right then millions of wrongs by criminal souls. It is here that the question of redemption becomes irrelevant. Like a small lamp drives away millions of particles of darkness with its tiny flicker, The women of France keep the torch alive. Beacon of hope, of love, of a possibility in times to come, an urge to relive the moments that sound farther than wildest dreams, In the backdrop of Nazi holocausts, they move silently, unheroically, carrying love in their eyes, hopes in their laps and seeds of humanity in their womb. Read this masterwork by Kristin Hannah. It might help you in being a still better human being. A more loving person .

Random Reflections

Soul is the real substance! This physical being is just the shadow of that true self. Ironically we grow up believing the shadow to be the substance and substance to be the shadow. It requires reverse conditioning to be truly on the path of evolution.

^^^^^^^

For good people its very difficult to enter a relationship and still more difficult to come out of it! For bad people its very easy to get into a relationship and still easier to come out of it!

*******

Ordinary beings possess extraordinary potential to win against odds, to jump over hurdles, to smile over tears, and, most importantly, to be happy when there aren’t enough reasons to be. They are the faceless constituents of a massive commonality. They are surrounded by a swiping generality. They are coloured in the monochromes of mundane reality. Still they are special. We have to acknowledge and celebrate the extraordinary in the ordinary people. I see heroes and heroines in my simple characters. They fight, and oftentimes fail, but write a little passage in the infinite book of life: an ordinary life that was lived substantially. On the small stage of life, they live very intensely. Somehow, the world would not be the world that is still beautiful without their contribution. They heave humanity onwards in its march to some better destination.

******

Of all types of death, including by disease, accidents, ageing, death born of someone's hate is the worst. Hate-born death slaughters the core principle of being humans. It strangulates the the basic constituent of our collective consciousness to survive individually as a part of the social set-up, a literally must-have for our identity as much as oxygen is must for our biological survival. Hate has potent carriers. It breeds death with the weapons of religion, caste, creed, race, ethnicity. From Nazi Holocausts, communist purgings, to modern day ISIS slayings, hate wreaks the worst form of death. Death born of hate is the very negation of the meaning of life.

Traders of Divisiveness

Indians basically behave like a group of famished rats crammed in a small cage having lesser grains and more hungry mouths. It's a poor mass of squabbling souls. Chaoitic, noisy, errant and blatantly oblivious to the advantages of orderliness and peace. It's basically a fight, a mere existence, just survival. The air is full of insecurity, suspicion, anxiety, jealousy, negative complexes: as many dark shades of human behavior as can be expected in a situation defined by few morsels and many hungry souls. It's a twilight complex stretched between need and greed. Ever unmet 'need' is even riskier than 'greed'. With massive population and scare resources, need always lurks even more prominently than summer noontime sun. When need overrides the particles of air that one inhales day in and day out, it goes into one's guts, it suffocates the higher self buried deep inside. The pollutants of ever-persistent need dehumanize the self, narrow the vision, suffocate creativity and limit sentiments.

Thanks to the universal applicability of the concepts of marriage and having a male heir for after death salvation, India is full. Crammed to the gills. Overpopulated to the extent that the core of individual philosophy is solely defined by the fight to survive. It makes them, the people--both individually and collectively--self-seeking. They cannot see beyond the basics of life. Of making a few well defined ends meet, at whatever cost. In such a mad rush breaking the rules becomes the rule itself. That's why Indians are so comfortable in flouting all the norms that go into making a clean, humane society. They run, they fall, they side step, step on others, pinch each other down. It's basically a mad race.

With so many hands grabbing the same basics in the same little plate what can you expect. They just identify themselves with their lower selves, the ego, defined by fears, insecurities, complexes and jealousies. The stage is so small that they don't have the opportunity, or the will, and consequently the ability, to get connected to the higher self, the stage of consciousness about one's role, responsibility and duties as a contributing entity of the larger, collective environment. This attachment to the lower self makes them terribly self-centered. It's a mass apathy. As long as they get the survival crumbs to pamper their lower selves, they care a damn about any self responsibility. They allow themselves and others to violate any socio-legal norm. The offshoots of such behavior include spitting anywhere, defecating almost everywhere, flouting traffic rules, tendency to take short-cuts to reach their little journey to meet the same puny destinations, grease palms of government employees, take bribes whenever possible, molest women, commit petty crimes, shout at the top of their voices for pettiest of things and over littlest of issues, and last but not the least take any short-cut to reach the smallest of a goal.

You name anything and Indians will not disappoint you in flouting the norms. All because they inherently and instinctively connect with the lower self. Out of all these huge mass of self-seekers, the most potent ones become the politicians. They are the best self-seekers who have hardly any restrictions, moral or legal, to stop them from meeting their desires and destinations. No surprise, the small self-seekers deserve only bigger self-seekers to lead them. There is no need to comment about Indian politicians and their oft-used tools of dividing society on caste, communal, regional and class bases. Indian democracy functions on divisiveness. Individually Indians are very low in self-esteem, creativity, guts, courage and enthusiasm, so they identify themselves with collective identities in the form of caste, creed, religion and region. This tendency is smartly used by the traders of divisiveness, the politicians.

A Small World around Her Feet

Her beautiful bluish eyes were sparking with reflections from swift torrents of the Ganges. Standing by the support posts of Ram Jhoola, the huge suspension bridge in Rishikesh, she took a deep view of the spiritual panorama like she had so many times since her arrival, believing the place to provide her spiritual succour, a food for her ruffled soul.

On the steps below an old Sadhu was washing brass image of Nag Deva in the sediment laden waters of the Ganges spiritually ebullient in the rainy season. She marvelled at the way his frail fingers, charged with devotional fervour for his beloved god, were busy in creating a shinier visage for the Godly metal. He seemed to be lost in a musical prayer; the rhythmic ripples in the holy mother chanting songs for him. His frail body, long locks of hair and beard all busy in devotional unison. Swiftly flew Ganga Maiya with the crop of its erosion work in the Himalayas.

With the enthusiasm of a spiritually spellbound foreigner she took a snap and the flash of light seemed to have disturbed his prayer. He stood erect holding the rag with the help of which he was using the abrasive power of the sediments to make his faith shinier and newer. The talisman of his faith was shining in the sun. The flashlight’s noisy whisper distracted his devotional work. In the distance a conch shell blared with devout urgency. He looked at her and a faint smile surfaced on his lips lost in rag tag beard. It then changed to laughter. The bearded laughter was a peculiar one and made her uneasy. People’s voice, music in the temples, dull vehicle sounds, incense and spiritual fervour sashaying over the breeze riding Ganges torrents all appeared to have stopped for a moment. She was clad in an Indian way, kameez and salwar, and looked resplendent with her curves and angelic features. For a fraction of a second he stood like a hypnotised soul.

Uneasily she moved onto the great bridge devotionally named Ram Jhoola. Vidhut followed her like a quadruped and taking a pity on the invalid she stopped. A local guide had translated the invalid’s story for 50 rupees. The invalid beggar was born with limbs that just allowed him to crawl on the four. He was born at ‘Pili Bheet’ she tried to recall the name but missed. He was 20 years of age now and had left home a good seven years back to sustain himself on all fours, while the more important bipeds scampered over him across the narrow swinging bridge that swayed over the majestic sprawl of the Ganges below. He spent his nights in the verandas of dharamshalas, making it a point to stick around as long as possible till he was kicked out along with the dogs. When his luck struck best, he even landed with 100 rupees at the end of the day. After hearing his translated story, she had given a nice blue 100 rupee bill as she took a snap, and he had taken it as the modelling fee. After all he was special. As she walked up to him he expected another modelling assignment. But she passed with the best smile ever possible that took him off all his fours.

The devotional world on both sides of the Ganges carried on among the bathing steps, temples, rest houses, dharamshalas, ashrams and bazaars buzzing with religious items.

For a whole month the rain Gods had been dripping in their pleasant fury. Even though it was not cold, still after so much of water and dampness it is desirable to have sunrays.

“For the last one month so much water has fallen over us that I feel like a fish permanently relishing the sea!” a saffron clad babaji, flaunting his English commented as he looked sideways while crossing her on the bridge.

She was tempted to look back but knew the risks a beautiful white woman carried in this part of the world, and quite contrary to her open nature she did not turn back. Such looks, simply born of curiosity, are misinterpreted very easily as green signal for a fling. She thus avoided the trouble.

The incense-drenched world on both sides of the great river appeared slowed down and subdued by the rains. Deep foggy clouds did endless rounds amidst the surrounding little vales and very easily found pretence to unburden themselves of whatever water they carried. From the surrounding ridges, water was perpetually slipping down to copiously feed even the tiniest sub-tributaries of small rivulets further feeding moderately big rainy drainage and the latter finding their way to the big river.

She needed this type of small place solace, far away from New York where the big world had piled up enough restlessness in her to go footloose. A chain smoker she had not smoked even once since she arrived here a week back. It was nothing sort of a miracle and she was looking forward to add many more such soothing miracles.

She loved this seemingly ancient world and more so in this antique shop. It was fragrant with anciently aesthetic fragrance. There were old paintings, saucers, sculptures, brass tortoise, frogs flat on their bellies, dogs, puppies, candle stand, carved silver vessels, a huge cone (God knows for what purpose), lizards, scales, compasses, trays, tumblers, beautiful vases, lamps, chimers, the oldest gramophone she had ever seen, horse riders, Gods and Goddesses, soldiers, crockery, Victorian trinkets, copper bronze and silver coins, a big painting by a Britisher, a Harappa type of violinist sitting on a chair, lamps of various shades, a marble mermaid, horse bust, electroplated punch bowls, an old rusted gypsy pan, old time watches, and so forth. She tried to observe each and everything. It was a pleasant mess. It was more exotic than her city-cramped senses could afford to see, forget about buying. She started taking pictures.

The attendant chided in her broken English, “If all take photos who buy!?”

She was embarrassed and to avoid further embarrassment bought an old replica of a boat. She also wanted to buy the British period copper bugle but found it too big and abandoned the idea.   

As she came out she met the gaze of that very same Sadhu whom she had seen washing the bronze God in the sandy waters of the river. His face bore a strange look. She got the pin-prick of scare and lowered her eyes to sneak past into the jostling crowd in the narrow bazaar street. She was apprehensive. She knew the risks the foreigners faced in India. But possibly it was incidental and probably the woman in her was exaggerating the risk. She had many muddled thoughts in her mind as she again found herself lost and spread out in the unknown world of agonies and ecstasies.

****

Sitting by a small roadside tea stall the old man in ascetic robes—but real earthly self of worldly needs clearly visible through the charity-expectant look—was asking for a packet of biscuits. With a fistful of coins he had purchased himself tea and retrieved a bit of honour, but to carry his will further, i.e., tea and biscuit both, he still needed the favourite aid of asceticism, i.e., asking for alms.

“Can’t see, lost my specks, now who would take mercy on an old man like me?” he pleaded.

Oh thou holy place! So many disbanded, discarded, and obsolete human beings take shelter in your teeming streets laden with religious fervour. Incense, chanting, charities, soul-salvaging rituals, flying locks, saffron robes—it’s a world in itself catering to the needs of as many as they dump their poor selves here. In between mother Ganges washed away littler, muck, and sins without any complaints.

Somebody bought him a biscuit packet and the religioner opened his worldly identity. “I’m from Pushkar in Rajasthan.”

He was on a month’s tour to the orphanage here. However, arriving here he might have calculated his chances better at this place than home because it literally won’t even raise any issue in his family if he didn’t return at all.

“Let me see if there is a man of God who can get me specks!?” he quaked in pleading fervour, trying to pull the strings of devotee’s salvage-seeking spirits.

“You are asking too much maharaj! It’ll cost about 100 bucks, so you should ask in instalments, collect your money and then buy to see this beautiful world!” a fat gentleman mused.

“There is a place but from where you can get one in charity,” another person wrote hastily an address on a chit of paper and the old sanyasi proffered a blessing over his head. 

This world is a little merry-go-round thing. The very same person who had taken the pains to write the address of a charitable organisation found the old man trying to invoke kindness in devotion-smitten souls walking over Ram Jhoola. “O men and women of God, can’t you spare something for my stomach treatment. It pains...day in and out. They say an operation is required. Please-please I die daily of this pain. God will bless you with pleasures unimaginable if you help me relieve from this pain!” the sonorous notes of his pleading voice mixed into the cool breeze blowing over the waters of the kind, cleansing river.

The address giver moved towards him with a meaningful smile. The charity seeker but was unmoved and stood solid with his present version of need. “It’s not that I just survive for free. I work as well. I wash brass utensils of that big temple over their!” before the gentleman could start with some lesson in morality and ethics of charity, the old man put up his defence guard.

“You had told me that you’ll directly go to the charity shop, get your specks and leave for your home!” the gentleman seemed up for some jest with the old man.

“Yes I’m gathering fare to reach the spot you mentioned. And to get money here you have to have a good reason, so this stomach ailment,” the old beggar was trying to salvage some respect.

The gentleman gave him 20 rupees and asked him to take a shared auto to reach the place before it closed for the day. Possibly he wanted to accomplish one pious deed in the day at any cost! He literally shoved him to the auto stand and deliberately hid himself around some corner to see the old man’s chain of action.

The old sanyasi was suddenly spellbound and looked at her feminine majesty as she passed at a distance unmindful of the gaze that was anchored on her with particular interest. The hiding gentleman could not hold it anymore and came angrily chiding, “Tricky old man, befooling people with need of specks and here you have all eyes for that beautiful white woman!”

****

Vidhut, the invalid from birth, had a sort of office on the Ram Jhoola, crawling on all fours, wearing chappals in his hands and another pair tied on both knees of his malformed little stumps of legs. As the devotees came gazing into the majestic torrents of the holy river, he pulled at the strings of their conscience, coming as a means of their salvage, a means of drawing God’s blessings by being kind to him. Crawling like this in the spiritual path of the pilgrims he daily earned 80 to 100 rupees. These days he visited his family very rarely.

Pili Bheet in Uttar Pradesh was a totally different place and his parents almost satisfied with God’s verdict to have him at the holy site as an instrument of Godly blessings for the luckier chunk of humanity. Yesterday he had a strong sense of purpose in life and rented a room for rupees 400 a month. He felt like respecting himself more, and draw more respect from the dharamshala caretaker who had kicked him out the previous day.

Once again her angelic face was gathering all these interesting tit-bits from him through another paid translator, a local street urchin who had picked up smatterings of English to get some pocket money in the bargain. The Ganges was creating stormy ripples below the mighty suspension bridge drawn from corporeal to the incorporeal. A man with puckered face watched with jealousy and interest.

“I have helped him many times, saved him from the policeman who try to drag him off the bridge. They in turn hit me with batons. I still carry the mark!” desperately he tugged at the local interpreter’s shirt to translate it for the Madam and get some attention on him for being good to somebody whom she liked to talked to.

“It’s a fracture. You must have got it while stealing something,” the translating boy just snubbed him in rough Hindi and shoved him away.

Surely, Vidhut was in news among the beggar group on the Jhoola.

“These white people are so strange that she might even adopt you and take you as far as America, the heaven!” one of his fellow beggars was creating the celestial world of luck beyond imagination.

And of course Vidhut hated the particularly interested stare of the old beggar from Rajasthan whenever she passed along. Had he approached her like any other beggar then it would have been normal. But the old Rajasthani was particularly drawn to her persona and still did not go for what is expected, i.e., alms or charity, but simply looked from a distance. It convinced him that the old man was drawn to her in a hateful way. And he cursed him for that. 

****

If you are a foreigner and happen to be at some pilgrimage place, you are then supposed to enjoy the devotional and spiritual fervour of the place, however tedious the exercise might come to you. The experience is, however, recommended.

After the Satsang organised by Swami Ramsukhdev ji Maharaj, in which innumerable chants and hymns and preaching interventions passed over her bent head, she was wearing her shoes crouching on the ground. A truly, we mean really religious persona decked in religiosity for the visual delight of it, priestly hand moved and was placed on her head with all the showers of this and the other world. She was awestruck looking up at his religious make up. It was amazing and impressive from all corners of this world.

“Are you from England?”

“No Maharaj I’m from America,” she had learnt to address the people attired as such with this word.

“Need a place to stay? You can stay here at the ashram. A very nice room!” he pinched slightly at her arm, straightway driving a strange intimacy.

She got to the immediate fringe of some vaguely lurking danger. The Ashrams vied with each other in having more and more white skins staying there for more impression and more gains in more than one form. It was a big industry to cater to money and carnal desires. She was shocked beyond apprehension and found herself going along with him. Now he was becoming more and more direct.

“This Godman is a ruffian...bastard...Has fun with girls staying at the ashram,” again he pinched at her arm mischievously, his voice now shaking with some fearful, natural passion.

She was scared beyond all her limits, even scared to scream loudly, after all these people are revered even more than God. She had seen hundreds falling at their feet since her arrival.

“You know we as humans should love each other. Oh, you don’t know how much I have liked you since I saw you. I’m blessed to have your company,” he was becoming more direct taking her shell-shocked state to be her consent. Or had she been drawn into some trick of hypnotism?

By now she could feel the pangs of lust effulging from his holy robes. But she was scared even to say something, forget about shouting. Vidhut just lunged forward in his dusted world, straying around like a puppy among the stampede of the bigger world above.

“Maharaj, maharaj...this life is wretched...I won’t let you go of your holy feet, bless me...I’m a worm and die every minute, please, oh please...” he was squirming like in fits and howling so piteously that even dozens stood around to have a look.

She regained her senses and just took the fraction of a moment to sneak out of the place, but not before looking into those dull dark eyes of the invalid, knowing fully well that he had done it deliberately to help her sneak out of the difficulty.

****

As per the norms of the society set up according to the appearances, we have to call him a lunatic. Her attention was drawn by the oddity of his forlorn situation. He was sitting on a heap of stones and a rimmed paramilitary hat perched safely on a towel wrapped around his ‘lost somewhere’ brain. To add more to his otherworldly attractiveness, he had wrapped a polythene sheet around him as if to guard his identity about which the bigger world wasn’t concerned anymore. Much to her surprise he somewhat positively responded to her accost. Saggy beard around the jaw-line moved to faint vestiges of smile on his face which appeared that of a Sikh. The smile seemed like an iota of appreciation for the swathes of sympathy on her beautiful features. He was eating soybean seeds from a packet. Sandals picket out from somewhere; a little school-boy’s tie; a sweater; a bag full of empty bottles and packets—it was all that remained to him in this world. In his pockets he had a torn diary and a pen.

“What is your name...name, name!” she treated him like a fellow human being, emphasising on ‘name’.

It was like talking to a stone, to something, to some empty bottle in the garbage pit stinking with all the muck in the world. We are sure he had not been called so particularly for long with such specific attention. He even got scared, getting into that evasive action to avoid a hit on the face. But then the beauty on her face was too assuring. His petrified eyes groped into the depths of her blue eyes. Sanity lurked deep from the unfathomable well of his miseries.

“M...M...Meer Singh!” his eyes closed under the impact of the push he gave to his crippled mind to draw sense for this beautiful creature from the outer world.

The way he had responded he seemed a case of somebody who had lost human sympathy rather than his mind.

She could recall Vibhut so particularly emphasising the place he was born to the translator. People carry the place of their birth even more importantly than even their names.

“Where are you from?” she was trying to make him understand the question more through gestures.

He kept on muttering some name again. Perhaps he was telling the name of the place. Since she was not aware of the local names any guesswork in that direction was of no use. He was trying to say the same word with a huge effort of his salivating mouth. Having failed to go any more, he gestured with his finger towards his head and finally like the dreamy world of an opium-fed man, he circled his finger over his hand to indicate he was mentally crippled. He had conveyed his identity.

“Education, education, studies, studies, books, school, school...” she held onto the iota of sanity that the anchorage of her sympathy had caught onto from across the unknown dark gloomy sea of his oblivion.

“Matric!” the effort found spittle dandling across the tufts of beard on his chin.

Again he circled his finger over the hat. Well, that was his identity now.

Possibly, drinking had something to do with his mental disorder for he picked up an empty cold drink bottle and muttered, “Bad, bad, hicc!!”

His eyes contorted with fear and he was looking now at something behind her back. Scared herself she looked back and was terrified beyond imagination. So it was not incidental. That smile by the riverside when he was washing that idol and that appearance by the trinkets shop, it wasn’t just simple coincidence. He but seemed even more scared than she herself was. Realising this, her fear turned more of a curiosity. The man stood there with folded hands. Before she could even react she saw Vidhut crawling up from behind and he straightway lunged into the old Sadhu’s legs, misbalancing him and toppling him on all fours. He was shouting like anything, raising a scare, drawing people’s attention, trying to save the princess from the danger that this old bad man, more beggary than anyone else in the semblance of saffron religiosity, presented. Vidhut was crying as he hit the man and clawed his face. The lunatic man also got up and unnerved by a strange sense started stomping the ground like an angry ape. He too started beating the old man with his hat. It was a real melee and before the people got together to disentangle the three of them, Vidhut had shown enough crawling clawing heroism to thoroughly roughen up the old man who was shaking and crying with convulsive sobs.

“All I wanted was a photo with her, hai hai send this rascal to jail, this crawling villain has shaken up my bones, police-police, is there any...is there a God-fearing man to take side of this old Sadhu who has been unjustifiably beaten up, hai hai, look at this worm who wriggles around the firangi woman!” he pointed to Vidhut.

She had already left the scene. People saw them going together. She was walking at a moderate pace and he crawling as fast as he could manage. Many tourists clicked a picture of this beautiful moment. There was mud across the narrow path. She put all her strength to lift his mud-smeared body, getting herself soiled in the effort, and put him to the other side. People applauded.

Somebody cheered, “She might have even fallen in love with him, these are crazy people, white people, expect the most daring from them!”