A Matricidal Tale of the Biggest Sinner

The August rains wreak havoc across many parts of Asia, uprooting millions who stay closest to earth. These hapless masses, occupying just a tiny shelter and a few cattle, have hardly any role in degrading the pristine slopes of their natural armour and in corroding ecological immunity, still they suffer the most. The behemoths, whose rapacious juggernaut rapes the natural resources, hardly get affected directly. The geography of a plush cocoon in a high rise may save them, but the stinking, suffocating atmospherics of an asthmatic earth, with lungs hardly functioning without trees, will come to lay its evil, chuckling grip on their plump neck-tied necks. Let them have air-purifiers, as they may brag about it. But how many times you will have your funny oxygen toy with you. Will you use it even while shitting and fucking? Well, if you do, then poor plunderer let me remind you that you make yourself a prisoner.

The naked, raped slopes fall crying testimony to their rape and plunder. The spiteful rivers cry out the tale of mankind’s scourge. The glaciers fall with the majesty of grand old men killed by their own grandchildren out of criminal neglect. Many species become extinct and the last of them take a final breath with a curse in their eyes for the man and his kind. The grandest trees fall telling another tale of agony and tragedy. It’s mother earth’s big, loud, pinful cry, you damn fools. 

Mother Earth’s lungs are burning. As the fresh, verdant, lively, life-giving woods get charred to lifeless ash, the mankind has taken one more step toward the inevitable doom. The lungs of earth, the Amazon forests, supplying 20% of the total oxygen to the mother planet, are turning to smouldering char and dead ash. Nobody seems to be bothered. It hardly qualifies as serious international news. The golden haired boss of the world and a small, plump Romeo, bursting at his skin’s seams, shaking hands to take a break from their respective follies pleasantly startles the planet. The message reaches everywhere from the hungriest bellies in the remotest hamlets in Africa to the well-fed rats in the gutters of the financial mega-hubs housing the dens of lies, conceits, exploits and plunder. But the lung of mother planet burning and collapsing hardly qualifies to be a news-studio worthy beat.

The modern civilization appears to be too solution-oriented. It believes in grafts and transplants. It’s taken as a hallmark of technological prowess. Isn’t it funny? I mean just having to pursue solutions for the follies that we are knowingly committing. It’s outrightly fatalistic. It just fights the evil-effects of the well-proposed and efficiently implemented policies and plans. Why doesn’t it just show innovation in being with the natural mechanisms that support human life? Why does it put all human potential in first deliberately destroying its overall home and then use institutions, NGOs, armies, research institutes, medicine, innovation and planning commissions to plan on a bigger scale to undo the self-inflicted harm? It is simply as fatalistic as a snake eating its own tail to survive. The poor thing assumes that it’s moving on the path of survival. Little does it realise, it’s progressing on the trail of its own annihilation.

So, as the news channels and those who matter waste their lung-power in school-boyish scuttles and slips, the pristine flora and fauna in the most luscious natural part of mother earth burns to lifeless ash. To the land-monger modern civilization, a clear path is more important than a clump of trees. The issues of trees and environment are left for the future generations to handle as they deem it fit. Basically, we are showering the so called parental love and care on our children to leave them suffering in the concrete gas chambers a few decades down the line. There cannot be a graver and more short-sighted version of self-seeking love.

The Real Prison

You know what, institutions are the mammoth whirlpools, which suck individuals into their all powerful innards. By institutions, I mean the systematized, soulless machinery to achieve dark, power-hungry, ambitious motives—even though a lot many of them pass off as the needs to run the world. The institutions of despots, dictators, mafia, business magnates, hidden heavyweights pulling the strings, the intelligence and spy agencies, politicians, NGOs, and many more. These are the black holes that absorb their own light, hence keeping them hidden.

Those who operate there lose their souls, their sense of right and wrong, as a strange sense of ennui grips them, making them sleepwalking jombies. The institutional juggernaut reaps its crop, while the individual clogs, levers, pullies, nuts and bolts just perform their duties mechanically. Institutions have strange hypnotic powers to put vibrant hearts and independent minds to put them under the magic wand. The constituents operate like lifeless bottles on the conveyer belt in an assembly line in a factory.

Even stones change to, slowly though, to the cooing calls of season and weather over decades. The institutions do not. They adapt though to the changing circumstances. However, the core philosophy stays the same. And long after the cog is retired, and regains a fraction of his soul, and sees the grease on his hands, only then he realizes what he has been through. Now he can listen to his heart. Now his mind can help him see beyond the factory wall. It does not, but, change anything in the world. Nor it can even if the retired cog tries. All it gives is a guilty bruise to an ageing heart and a sad feeling that life could have been spent better beyond the walls of the institution. 

Ajit Dobhal in Afghanistan

In order to consolidate the non-military Indian rebuilding efforts in Afghanistan, the suffering soil of the lost paradise there needs Indian boots now. Modi sahab listening! Modi chacha ji, it will help Tau Trump also. He is very cranky and pissed off right now, especially after the Greenland fiasco.

Well, the Indian PM is now well known, in fact famous world over, for doing lot many things, which we see happening for the first time. So, why not Indian boots in Afghanistan to restore the rule of law there? It's not that it will help Afghanistan only. It will directly help India in Kashmir also. Violence in Afghanistan and Kashmir share a subtle anatomy. I don’t think there is any doubt about this poignant chemistry. Just peel off the upper layer, use some common sense, and there you see the bitter juicy reality.

So, why not go into the den itself to contain the scourge. A little icing on the cake, it will cheer up Tau Trump also. He is very moody and unpredictable. You may find him having Iftar with Imran Khan if you leave him alone to suffer with this irritation. Modi Sahab listening? One more thing: by having Indian boots in Afghanistan, you get a strategic location to twist both the right and left ears of the naughty all-rounder boy.

History gives a little opportunity now and then. There is a little opening for India to consolidate its position now—after all that rebuilding efforts within our limits, which unfortunately Tau Trump finds almost inconsequential to the puny extent of just building a library somewhere in the war torn country—by redefining its association in Afghanistan. Tau Trump is willing presently. He seems to have bitten more than he can chew, so needs munching jaws to support the mouthful. If irritated further, who knows, you may have, God forbid, naughty all-rounder boy's boots there, which will be worse.

I know the skeptics will sound a warning about the irresolvable puzzle that Afghanistan is, suitably giving Russian and American examples. But aren't things managed finally by someone? The Indian PM, being an astute human resources actualizer, can definitely count upon Dobhal Sahab. The modern version of Acharya Chanakya has definitely more to offer than assignments like managing Post-370 Kashmir. Modi Sahab count upon him to manage Afghanistan with Indian boots in the once paradisiacal country.

If the whole idea still seems too preposterous and unworkable, go there at least as goddamned UN peacekeeping boots. Graft the American led NATO forces with a UN peacekeeping mission. The boots will remain the same, with the addition of Indian boots of course, and it will not create a paper revolution in India by the opposition. Moreover, beyond all the stratagems, the poor country needs a peacekeeping force only.

The Mother

Vivian Richards: “Test father, One Day mother and T20 their children” One of the greatest cricket players of all times has a big point here. I but beg to differ a bit slightly, or may be not so slightly. My common man’s corrected version would be: “Test mother, One Day father and T20 their children”.

Test is the genesis, the prolonged furnace in which the real cricketing destiny is forged. So shouldn’t Test be called the mother? Given her soulful, bordering on most selfless version of love seen in nature, contribution in formulating a new life, involving emotional and physical contribution before conception, and later in the form of irrigating the new seed with her own blood, and still later in 24 by 7 care and concern, when her own individuality melts and takes the shape of that little vulnerable life, doesn’t she stand closer to the prolonged cricketing game of agonies and ecstasies spread over the five day version of the game? So Test definitely is the mother! I have no doubts. Ask mother earth, how much of divine stillness and poise is needed to allow a new seed to sprout from its earthy womb!

Father is the One Day version, definitely. He is moderately rash, adventurist and huffs and puffs for a day. No wonder, his contribution might seriously come close to only one fifth of what a mother does for her children. No insults meant for all the fathers out there. But kindly have a close look at the story of your children’s rearing up, and you will realize the mothers have been out there like a slowly smoldering warmth, keeping the tiny shapes with the prolonged glow of her care and forever-existing duties. Fathers have a privilege of playing, tiring though, swashbuckling one-day innings and hot blizzards of fiery spells of bowing and rolling dives in the field. It has but its concurrent fun, this play of brawn and show of spirit. But the classic contours of a mother’s travails are spread out over a broad time and space, like some elegant tussle at the Lord’s on some autumn evening. Her efforts touch the horizons and mix with misty insignia of godliness.   

Well, no issues about the children being the vagrant, rampaging, arrogant, disobedient, running off the line T20. Effervescent, unorthodox, fiery, revolting, as many mishits as hits during the funny adolescent idiosyncrasies. We can spare our words from elaborating on the evident jocularity.

The Angry President

An angry Trump skipped lunch and like a pissed off kid raising a ruckus about going to school cancelled his Denmark holiday. Not being able to purchase a future's prime location, and present's last hideout away from the mankind creating concrete jungles (Greenland), to change its status from nature's estate to real estate, I hope there aren't broken windows in the White House. An angry businessman is scary man! It's understandable, there can't be a bigger loss for a businessman. My sympathies with him for his mood getting spoiled. And God save the dining set, bedside mirror, housekeeping staff and even officials in the office. All of us are mother earth's kids. But the tantrums of the fattest bully among the famished mass of we poorlings can be very testing. I pray to almighty that there is a surge in President's business to make him forget about the loss!

From booming, buzzing colonies to sad, solitary couples

It is a cool late August morning and a lot many hominids are having hasty breakfasts before catching onto the bandwagon of survival through the day. This little Indian yellow wasp, unfortunately maligned with a pinching adjective ‘stinging’, is not breakfasting on the dry bark of this dead Marwa plant.  With the unhurried ease of an artist, it’s scratching away little bark crumbs to use these in making its paper carton galleries to lay eggs and start the process of life from its end. In the slow-paced, unhurried smaller world, they use pollen crumbs and dead bark pieces to build their umbrella-shaped nesting hives, the little galleries to shelter eggs.
Well, it’s a sad tale from colonies to couple. Earlier, during the times when they stood a chance to stand, or when humankind wasn’t too imposing, they thrived in colonies and valiantly defended their citadels. The days are gone. Humankind’s heart has shrunk and his pest control arm has expanded well beyond his home and hearth. It now covers every nook corner of earth. So the colonies are out of question these days. All you have is just a wasp couple—he/she seen in the video and the partner taken flight to lay the foundation somewhere—sneaking like thieves and set up a little nest in some inaccessible part somewhere around overhangs, porches, eaves, attic corner, barn, porch shed, some abandoned ceiling, railings or door-frames. More than the artistry, it is about theft of temporarily stealing a little space somewhere. Just a tiny bulb of nest and a few eggs. All that is left of the maligned stinging nest. A little unbecoming projection at the risk of swatted out by the gentlest touch of a cobweb cleaner.
There will be many who feel like rapping my knuckles for speaking for the stinging wasps. Well, do they sting for pleasure? Let somebody come barging uninvited into your bedroom and then watch your own sting. Just because you hold man-made pares of the property doesn’t justify your sting, just like it doesn’t biggest wars for space and resources over earth.
Nature has a place for them. They pollinate flowers and control many insect species. Now don’t look at the insect species controlled by the wasps as the primary villains. They in turn must be controlling something else. In the two-way scheme of things, every species receives something in lieu of what it gives back. We have but turned the tables. We have re-calibrated the natural instinct to give back also. It’s a mad rush to take as much as possible, without willingness to give back anything. No wonder, we have raped mother earth. With newer and newer techniques to plunder resources, we are giving back long, long tragic tales of ecological degradation, extinction of species, wars, diseases, strife and unrest. Well, the list of our give-aways is endless on the negative side.

The Real 'Wrong'

Well, most of us commit our wrongs with a sense of duty, a sort of commitment, in a kind of frenzied sense of occupation. If not for this, so many of us will not be found ready, almost instinctively, to go the wrong way rather than volunteering to do something good. So, the ‘wrong’ seems to have its justification born of those perceived duties by the doer.

A hierarchy of sieving then decides not so common from the common-most crop. At the first level of filtration, the finest wire-mesh allows majority of the mob of wrongdoers trickle down into the dustbin of petty wrongs on the smallest stage closest to earth in crowded slums, stinking nullahs, mucking markets and laboring beehives, where the fight for survival saps most of the energy, leaving very little escapades of and on in frustrated minds. The bigger, fat, rascally particles stay above on the screened, perforated platform and engage in bigger wrongs on a more substantive platform.

Now, the second level of sieving takes place among the thicker rascal-heads, the bigger baddies, or the plumpier daddies of the trade. The holes in the wire-mesh are bigger than the previous one. A lot many foolish gallants topple down, so many die, get beaten, imprisoned and clobbered down to survive at the second tier of wrongdoing. They slide down the screening holes at the second tier and settle for bigger wrongs than the lowest mass. As expected, the still thicker ones get a chance to play the wrongdoing game at the next level. Here, the stakes are higher. The risks involved are bloody, but so are the returns, which hit the proportions of jackpots.

To qualify to stay above the screening mesh at the third level, the thickheaded pebbles, veritable stones, quibble, use brain as well as brawn, and mostly utilize the muscle of the toppled down smaller particles at the level immediately below, and the ignorance of the ant-swarms at the bottom.

In this final sieving, the biggest mafias, cartels and powerful politicians stay afloat to rule at the apex. Now they decide what is ‘right’ and what is ‘wrong’. All other versions of right and wrong at the lower rungs lose their meaning. There, at the lower orders, murders, rapes, felonies and thefts come to be mere stats in the law and order book. These are mere social problems and hardly matter as long as these don’t shake the foundations of the state, i.e., interests of the ones qualifying to be filtered at the highest sieve.

One can commit a murder on the lower rungs and still be considered a foolish nonmalignant element. However, if a sound brain, even in the frailest and most non-violent of a body, raises a verbal assault against the wrongdoers at the apex, he then becomes the most lethal anti-state, malignant criminal. The state is basically not bothered about the marketplace cacophony of petty criminalities like someone cutting somebody’s throat, or someone raping, plundering, beating or shouting abuses. These are local-police station worthy petty, minor pardonable wrongdoings. These in fact are the cause of creating the bread and butter for a whole damn law-keeping department. The real ‘wrong’ is the ‘wrong’ that shakes the confidence, or throws light, or exposes, the machinations and stratagems of the biggest rascals at the top. 

Dove in Love

Dove in love.
Impatient he.
Teasing she.
Airy swirls.
Hugging frills.
Breeze free.
Passionate spree.
Almost a fight.
Soul's delight.
Love.
Dove.
Love.

A sombre dusk and a dandy lad/lass

A dawn of faded blue, grey, dark, pale orange and rusted silver. Nature holds the ultimate copyright on colours, shapes and phenomenon...

Lanky lad/lass--Parijat
Well, with painful pruning, which hurt my conscience and his/her body as my pruner did its job, my friend will at least won't blame me too much after looking at himself/herself. A fantastic tree model he/she appears. A gorgeous adolescent! Nutrition of monsoon season and my jimming instructions have put it on the path of developing a well chiselled tree body. He/she appears like a tautly proud and confident NCC cadet. All the best! Grow to be a firm soldier against pollution and ecological degradation!

The story of love between a thorn and a rose

Monsoon wedding. The husband, a prickly, stern, hardwooded acacia; the wife, a mellowy, soft, delicate, juicy, heaet-shaped leaves attired embracer Giloy (Tinospora Cordifolia). She covers her beau's hardy ruggedness. He spreads his hardy self for her soft, supine creepy lovenotes to climb high and kiss airy swirls of the monsoon season. All of us are just parts of a larger beauty, mere contributors to a bigger picture. No life stands in isolation. All are contributing characters on the largest canvas where Colors, shapes, panorama keep moving in a circulatory fluidity, giving rise to stories, anecdotes and episodes. Feel the mammoth river of Life flowing around your apparently distinct self. Spread your wings. Enlarge your vision. Broaden your heart. Embrace more of life and living. It gets you freedom from the chained self imprisoned in narrow confines of illusions, ignorance and a block in the smooth flow. Claim your liberty!

A little story of an abandoned nest

An abandoned home waiting for mother nature to dissolve it into a different shape. A masterwork of tailoring by the tiny Tailorbird by stitching three leaves to make a cosy home. The interiors have strong webby framework of buffalo hair and cotton. How do I know these are buffalo hair. Haaa haaa. I do. We know know them with more familiarity than even our own crop on our head. Grew as we wallowing in the village pond where buffaloes swam, defecated and urinated with an utmost sovereign ease. Haaa haaa. I can even recall the taste on my skin, including the tongue part---haaa haaa sorry to disturb too pilished tongues--as we played in our acqua playground. Well, leave it...
Coming back to the little abandoned home. A little sugary sweet lump of love and care that arranged this texture. A new life flew out successfully, as I myself bear witness to at least one hatchling taking on to its first flight out of the tiny cluster of trees.
So the sweet home will be dissolved, recycled and change to a new pattern. It's a long and winding story to the ultimate home dotted with little little temporary homes where love coos in finest, delicate most tunes...

The ultimate cocoon of the penultimate camouflage caterpillar

Case moth, a camouflage caterpillar, on its leaf eating sortie on my guava. This chap makes a silken cocoon around it and attaches tiny twigs around it. And then moves like a little cylindrical wagon of firewood. Amazing. But of course poor leaves have a different tale to tell. Well, he should not be deprived of such hardworked breakfast, lunch, brunch and dinner all put on the same plate. Babblers though happen to have this feaster on their own lunch table. The cantankerous kings of the quarrelsome birdie world, make lot of noise while undoing the protective wood wagon and gather their own food from something which was gathering from someone else. So now the case moth has a sorry tale to tell. Ask the babbler. It definitely will have many of the same genre to tell. Well, this sad touch in the story is simply our mental projection created relatively to a so called happy touch. Beyond our mental  projections, there are simply stories in nature, cyclically interweaving their threads to make one singular entity, the ultimate case moth, the final camouflage...

A glimpse of the ultimate truth

A glimpse of the ultimate truth at dusk in my village:
On the infinite canvas in the sky, He, the ever-creative artist, paints one mural after the other. Gives a fleeting vision of the ultimate truth. Of transience. Of ever transforming shades. The creator doesn't hold onto the fleeting shades. He allows these to dissolve into newer and newer frescoes.
PS: Ravinder bhai has provided a higher dimension to my emotion through his translation. So cannot help sharing it on the main post with much thanks to him. He is rapidly evolving on the path of self realisation. May almighty allow him to stand face to face with the ultimate truth. Here goes the translation:
वह, एक रचनात्मक कलाकार के रूप में, आकाश के अनंत चित्र-फ़लक पर , एक के बाद एक चित्र बनाता है। एक अंतिम सच्चाई के रूप में क्षणभंगूर दृश्य देता है । क्षणिक भंगुरता का  । कभी रूपांतरित होते हुये रंगों का । विधाता इस लगातार बदलते क्षणिक रंगों को रोकता नहीं है । वह तो  इस घुलते हुये नए से नए बनते भीतिचित्रों की अनुमति प्रदान करता रहता है -----आभार सहित प्रोफेसर रविन्द्र कुमार

Cancered mother and the unconcerned son

Cancered mother and the unconcerned son

Not the end of July yet and we have already consumed the annual budget of natural resources. It means whatever was supposed to be used as per our needs in a whole year has been chucked out in less than seven months. So the remaining five monts will bear testimony to our greed when we will rape natural resources. Unchecked growth of cells in a physical body leads to cancer. Unchecked growth of modern civilization has led to cancer and tumors in mother earth. It's a dying planet, eh!

http://geopoliticsofenvironment.com/2018/08/02/earth-overshoot-day-and-our-environment-real-time/

The Itchy-tailed Intruder

Chirpy protests against unsolicited visit. The bully, a male indian Robin with rusty red rump and its itchy tail flicking, arrives. Probably it has not so fair intentions, otherwise why would the hosts raise such a storm of choicest abuses against the intruder. The tailorbird pair, half the size of the intruder, can fight--verbally of course--with more tenacity than even the most cantankerous aunty in your neighborhood. Their shrill notes have sharp talons man. What proficiency in protesting! Well, they have a right to so it. After all, they own this tree under the birdie constitution. They have their nest sewen up among three leaves. So of course the tree belongs to them. Even I, whose courtyard happens to keep rooting of the tree, have surrendered my rights of ownership after their vehement lung power in protest against any effort to prune even those branches which are well away from their little nest and are of inconvenience to me. But then I can't match their quarrelsome capacity, so I have resigned myself to the fate of my face and head getting some brush against the pinchy caressing of the tree. What to do? They own it completely as long as they have their family here. Spotted Munia also have their grassy globular nest on a nearby branch. They also try to contribute to the protest, but cute chocolate brown little beauties having chess pattern in their breast have such feeble jingling notes that you can't even make out their contribution to the musical protest. It's luke their sitar notes get lost into the humungous buttock busting notes of biggest drums in the loudest discotheque in the baddest part of the world. Anyway they also protest and click from branch to branch. It pays to have quarrelsome neighbours sometimes. Isn't it? So the bully was intimated. He flew away with a jarring note of typical chhhrrr accompanied by ever-flicking tail. These four residents of the small Parijat tree also throw explitives on the baddy squirrel who tries to get away with eggs. But not as long as these noisy defenders are there. Agreed that they can't physically chase the fur-lined snouty nuisance, but their verbal fight draws my attention sometimes and I go to add to the defending army. The very same ageold instinct to be with the underdogs! By the way sometimes even a pair of purple sunbirds, the male's metallic blue sheen looking over the mundane dull colours of the female, joins the protests. A par of oriental white eye, their notes hardly distinct among the commotion. But they make bigger statements with their beatiful white-ringed eyes and flit with their square tails from branch to branch. Once in a while even the most garrulous babblers also join the protesting chorus, thinking there must be a bigger common enemy to all, for example a snake. However, when they find that these tiny birds are overhyping the thread over almost a non-issue, they just take off angrily. But man at least u expect a bit of reciprocation for my help. The other day I was removing some wild growth in a corner away from the tree and there were these tailor birds again throwing choicest abuses in their birdie language. I even felt irritated. I have even surrendered my right to the tree and now you don't want me to touch anything in the whole yard, I whispered to myself. So now I am open to the idea that they have at least equal right over the courtyard also. What to do? These tiny, shrill loudspeakers can definitely send down jarring notes when they are angry!

PS: Freshly minted Tailorbird hatchling....so it has been a success. She looks funny, makes delicate cheeu cheeu sounds and is learning the first lessons in flitting and flying in the safety of little cluster of small trees.

Kakistocracy

Kakistocracy is defined as ‘a form of government in which the least qualified or most unprincipled individuals are in power.’ It is summarized as the ‘government by the worst elements in the society.’ Isn’t it true generally? I mean leave apart a few exceptions, some luminaries who retained their souls while still on the seat of power, then you see all rulers and governments Kakistocratic in nature. Exceptions prove the rules only, by the way.

The word has Greek origins. ‘Kakos’ means ‘bad’, and its superlative form ‘kakistos’ means ‘as bad as it can possibly get’. Well, I think only its superlative form qualifies one to be a serious contender. The lesser forms can hardly get you the post of even village head even in the most democratic form of governance. No wonder, those who deem themselves to be ‘good’ start shivering at the name of the word ‘politics’. Or is it that they put up a varnish of ethics, morality, principles and humanism to hide their inherent weakness whose shackles they cannot break to compete in the race for the highest stakes where one’s ambition and concurrent ego meets the best solace.  

Well, before we get into any argument about this system is better than that, or this ruler superior than that one, let’s just clear the basic concept of ‘ruling’ the operational part of hunger for power. To be in charge of something bestows ‘power’. The latter provides morsels of food to an ambition to grow out of one’s skin and become the destiny-makers of many lesser mortals, the mere meekly subjects. It’s very rarely about being ‘good’ and jumping into the fray with a soul-driven guiding light of altruism, to bring good to the masses. If you are fighting such a bloody battle, how will you even think of poor millions while your own gums are bleeding due to the ever-punching rascally opponents? In a fight how can one remain a saint? And if someone does, then my salutes. There have been a few by the way. But their negligible number proves the point.

It’s primarily about beating the ambitious, power-hungry horde running after the coveted seat. Are there decent chances of someone ‘good’ person, who—even if given a jackpot surprise of somehow getting to the top of ladder of ambition—stands out as unqualified and weak participant in the game later on, beating the rampaging bulls. If not altogether impossible, there is literally non-existent chance of someone really ‘good’ toppling the stage the perch on the throne. Even after reaching there, how will a decent ass keep glued to the seat if outright hounds are pulling from all direction to dethrone the decent ass.  

Leave apart a few dozen of Abraham Lincolns and Nelson Mandelas, out of thousands and thousands of rulers across all genres of ruling class, starting from unquestioned aristocrats, despots, communist dictators to the modern-day decent democratic representatives, you have trainloads of extra-smart guys who prevailed over, fuelled by a relentless ambition to yield power, the lesser competitors to occupy the throne.

No wonder, in Indian democracy, or for that matter anywhere else in the world, we have the majority of MLAs and MPs having criminal backgrounds. It needs a lot of ‘hard’ will to get into the corridor of power, man. And the pack leader has to be the strongest. When did nature decide on good or bad? Isn’t it all about the strongest takes away the trophy in all species? Can it be different in case of humans who are mere one of the species in nature? It’s basically about those who can make and those who cannot. It doesn’t change the law of neutral existence if those who cannot make it pacify their defeat under the principles of ‘good’ and ‘bad’. Ethics are very nice pills to cure the stomach pain of being left out.

In the power game to emerge a ruler, the strength is defined by an ability to make a mincemeat of the opponent. And where such bloody fights are perpetually going on day in and day out, the little wasps of so called ‘goodness’ hardly stand any chance. Or do they?

Doesn’t it mean that every system of governance, ranging from absolute dictatorship to democracy, is Kakistocratic in nature? Just the variance of degree of Kakistocracy in one over the other, like in communist dictatorship it is direct in the face type and indirect, subtle, scheming and tricky in democracy, doesn’t make one completely into it and the other free of it. You have a Hitler, Lenin or Changez Khan in one set of bloody, gory Kakistrocracy. But then you may have--actually we have all around--monsters safely hidden under starched white clothing bearing beneficent smiles—a better-looking variant of the power-hungry super-species--holding their talons under the garb in the softer variant of yielding power like in democracy.  

Best of luck to you all who don’t qualify to be a part of the group! Only superior forces, beyond terrestrial domain, can help you!   

Allow the Universe to Expand from your End

Gems retrieved from an abandoned flower pot in a mossy corner overgrown with wild grass. Salvaged these two tiny Peepal tree saplings from a disused flower pot overgrown with bunch grass and weeds. Planted them safely in seperate pieces to nurture them till they become boys from infants and then give them the freedom to grow wild and manly.
 You try your level best to grow Peepal from seeds. The odds are against succees. I have seen it to a salty taste on my tongue, the taste of failure. And see a bird eats some fruit somewhere and eases it's bird-drop here in the flower pot. Must have been attracted by the little path of wilderness. Must have come to eat grass seed or some little insect lost in the deep forest. And then finding it a safe corner, eases itself also. That's how mother existence creates its pathways for its march. And how does our consciousness becomes a channel for this pattern's evolution? The streamlined awareness across a particular path lays down the path for the evolution of species, phenomenon and various forms of matter. Most of the times our emotions, born of interplay of consciousness and the external world around, become facilitator for this evolving pattern. I like gardening, so I create a bit of space for expansion of universe in my little corner. I am also prone to see things going on their free way, so that creates the space for a small circle of wilderness in a corner where it won't be otherwise. Now this little space of naturality gives a pathway to mother existence to sow a seed of potentiality which is filled up by a bird's dropping. The prospect grows within the small confines of a disused flower pot. Now from this point, it's someone's emotion that will help it in moving towards the next hierarchy of evolution. Like I taken the saplings from the abandoned pot and replanted them in seperate pieces in polycovers. They need tending like little infants. Again awareness and emotions fuel that care and prospects. These will be then replanted in the wild. The beauty of being humans is that we can consciously create the positive pathways for mother existence to move forward on its march. Choose to be aware and conscious of creating a positive pathway for the bigger benefit of all. That is why we have been given this ability of voluntary consciousness by mother existence. Create space for universe to expand positively...

Life: A bubble of consciousness born of matter and energy transformations

As per the classical mechanistic model of physics, they assumed this universe to comprise matter and empty space beyond. This approach was basically born of looking at things in exclusivity, strictly defined by separate boundaries, i.e., end of one and the start of the other. But if things were so exclusive, how would the matter scattered in the universe interact, and get into a transformative process, across the barriers of empty space in between?

Further researches convinced the scientists of the existence of a zone of interaction, the buffer zone floating between matter and emptiness (as they visualized space then) in the form of electromagnetic and gravitational forces in the empty space. The latter were taken as mere ripples (or effects) of the matter floating in the emptiness of space.

Then the quantum scientists went ‘within’ and more and more ‘within’ into the supposed solid, indestructible wombs of particles. Layers after layers of once solid particles were peeled off only to land at flashes of energy at the fag end. The solid matter turned out to be mere clumps of energy. More importantly, the empty space, hitherto supposed to be the medium for electromagnetic radiation and force of gravity (once presumed mere effects of matter) turned out to be the same extension of the quantum field which manifests as matter in the areas of high energy clumps. So it leaves us with one entity: a quantum field where energy is going cyclically.

So now it’s accepted that it’s just singular energy field involving infinite lot of virtual interchanges of subatomic particles giving rise to cosmic blizzards. An infinite potentiality of transformations and cyclical handovers from one state to another, just change, no give, no take, no loss, no gain. Merely a cyclical transformation of energy in the universe in which the apparent matter (in the form of clump of energy) simply happens to be a transitory stage. The present cycle of universe began with the big bang to continue expanding till the big implosion, the cosmic crunch, only to go round like an endless journey along a circle. Simply a cosmic heart beat, with the beat interval of billions of years.

Like an infinite circle is composed of little series of straight lines, similarly this cosmic multidimensionality also comprises definite patterns of linearity, not in the strict sense of straight lines but in the definiteness and specificity of patterns. A circle is merely a clump of numerous straight lines across its periphery. Similarly, the cyclical transformation of energy in this mammoth circle cannot just go randomly. Its basic building blocks have linear patterns in the directions of evolution.

Suppose there is rainfall on the slopes of a mountain. Under the law of gravitation, the water has to flow down. It cannot move up or stay where it lands. So gravity is the superior law defining this particular process. It has to flow down or at least retain its tendency to flow down if there is some obstruction; in that case, that tendency takes the form of potential energy. So each and every ounce of this existence is simply a manifestation of one energy transforming into the other. When the water moves down, the potential energy changes to kinetic energy, which goes into changing into many types of actions that are a result of the water’s movement.

Now raindrops fall randomly. But the process later on cannot remain on the same scale. Here things acquire a shape. The water coming down acquires stability over a period of time after the initial moments of randomness handed over by the falling rain. It stops at obstructions, takes a recourse and very soon, without any choice and prejudice, as per the supreme law of self-sustained spontaneity, establishes a little water channel. Many such individual channels, make a rivulet, and many rivulets go into making a mainstream, which cuts its valley where its initial turbulence is changed into effortless flow in broad winding stream in mature and old age.

Same is the course of flow of energy streams in the forms of apparent matter (clumps of energy at specific frequencies). The supreme law is that the net energy is zero, and to have zero you can have countless, infinite plus and minus components, balancing out each other for a zero net result, like at each stage you add and subtract the same amount. You are at liberty to have infinite interplays. So under the supreme law, it has to flow in cyclical transformations. Visualize a circle and try moving your finger on its rim. There is a journey without end till you get tired. But your getting tired or losing interest in continuing with the job is no benchmark to set up an ‘end’ to the journey. The path still stays with its potential for infinite movement. However, with our limited sense perception, we have a linear, fragmented view of things and phenomena. To make things tangible to us, we have to have a straight line of cause and effect, a simplifying linearity, which presents a convenience to us to make our world run. However, in a cyclical transformation, the movement is endless without net loss or gain. Same set of energy, on and on. The apparent diversity of the matter is simply due to the existence of different frequencies on the path of transformation.

Now this energy also cannot transform randomly. It has to develop a pattern over a period of time, just like water falling in the raindrops over the slope cannot flow randomly forever and finally acquires suitable channels given the geography. Its freedom to flow under the force of gravity also gives it a duty to acquire a definite pattern over a period of the time so that it adapts to the platform of its action, that is, the terrain, so that it becomes one of the parts in the holistic scheme of self-sustaining ecosystem. Similarly, the energy transforming itself under the supreme law of cyclical transformation acquires a shape, a pattern, a design, a specificity, a definiteness. Like the random drops acquire an order in the form of stable channel over a period of time, this consciousness evolving through matter/energy transformations in a particular direction turns into a recognizable entity, a flow, a spontaneity.

The flow of matter/energy in one particular direction gets a definite shape in the form of individual species of animals, trees, birds, reptiles and much more. Take for example Homo-sapiens. It’s merely a flow of matter/energy in this specific direction which has acquired a particularity after cutting down its path through the choiceless speadework on the terrain of creation. The choicelessness itself handing over the reward where it appears like there is some freedom of flow in a well set course.

In the case of humans, the flow of this matter/energy over the path of its passage has ingrained certain characteristics just like it has for any other species. That repetition, that linear ease for a smooth passage, gets imbibed as the genetic pool in the DNA to give rise to a species, a temporary but tangible part in the passage. The milestone but stands notified as a species.  And these millions and millions of distinct courses in the form of manifestations of energy, apparently linear, are the constituents of the big circle of nothingness. But in this ever-shifting play, the evolution of a definiteness, the cementing of its course, facilitated by the so called gene pool, is tangible as a collective consciousness primarily. A big identity. Simple fact is that, in one particular direction, the flow of matter/energy allows the pathway, like the water channel does for the random drops of rain, for the propagation of a particular species. The overall, tendency which allows this choiceless emergence of such patterns is the cosmic consciousness. The supreme awareness facilitating the establishment of patterns in continuous flow is the ultimate law.

Now just like water in the collective consciousness of an established course, i.e., river, comprises many water molecules, the collective consciousness of a particular species also comprises numerous, individual consciousness. Again under the simple law: whole is just an assortment of parts; part is merely a miniature of the whole. So the individual consciousness also ingrains its identifiable characteristics within the collective of that particular stream. In humans we call it the karmic imprint. It’s an assortment of the processes and stages passed in the early stages of the journey experienced by one individual consciousness.

Like a well established river course is not inclined to take a sudden recourse, the divine momentum in an individual consciousness makes it inclined to retain its course. Consciousness is just the set of an individual course within the collective course of the particular species, the latter itself being an individual consciousness within the super-sea of cosmic consciousness. It’s the self-evolving program running the hardware of energy transformation processes.

These countless strands of individual and collective consciousness, comprising the overall cosmic consciousness, are mere virtual fuel-tanks facilitating the cyclical transformations of energy. Take a small example. A neighborhood woman has very nice emotions for my mother. She finds my mother outside the house and she shows concern for the wild growth there. She has seen a snake there. This information is born of her concern for my mother’s safety. I decide to go out once their chat is over. Yea there is wild growth. But there is something more important. I have been thinking of planting a peepal or banyan plant for some time. I have even sown seeds for it. No germination. A big disappointment. I see a small peepal there. My day is made, I feel so happy. A beautiful emotion born of care and even fear in a woman triggers my little walk to the place and I see the most holy plant in Hindu and Buddhist system of belief. A bird ate a fruit somewhere and dropped its bird-drop and there grows the uncared peepal which won’t grow despite best of my efforts with the help of internet research. Her good emotion for my mother sets in motion a chain of events that will help in a story that started with a bird eating a fruit to the planned replanting of a nice tree and my emotions born of my individual consciousness involved in between. Isn’t the so called ‘individual consciousness’ merely a virtual fuel to facilitate the cyclical transformation of energy around us?  

The Return of the Natives

A fresh breezy morning. Night blooming jasmine clad in bright green new set of leaves after the spell of autumnal detachment when it shed each and every leaf and looked an old man. Now it's young and sways to intoxicated gusts of mansoon wind. The natives return. It's a spotted munia couple. Beautiful rusty brown birds having a chessboard pattern on the breast. They trill even more beautifully. It's the same branch and the same section of twigs where they had set up a nest last year. I am sure it's the same couple. If I am right then birds seem to have more fidelity than humans because meantime millions of men and women must have parted ways on bitter notes over trivials. Well, none of my business to comment on our foolish ways. I enjoy the making of this irregular globular nest. It's a masterwork in deception. To a predator it would appear like a broken, abandoned nest. In reality, the eggs will be safe in an inner chamber. The father ferries big pieces of grass. He has to pay for his lusty overtures...haa haa. The mother is busy in decorating interiors. She has to pay even bigger for her emotional surrender. Last year the hatching wasn't successful. A squirrel comes and visits the tree. She is just a guest. Not a resident of the tree. I enjoyed the sight of her old womaniah tiktikking...little did I know they are egg stealers also. So she must have been the culprit last time. With the addition to my knowledge about the ways of squirrels, I m better prepared this time. Will keep an ear for the agitated notes of the little birds to find out the cause of distress, like I did yesterday around noon. Busy in writing I heard the plightful softest of notes and ran out to find out the squirrel scouting around the new house in making. Had to chase it away. Lost my meditative balance also by the way. What to do? Have to support the underdogs. A birdi life saved is more important than a squirrel missing a meal. It seems so at least till I cross the final hurdles to beat the paradoxical plays of duality to see everything in the same way. Well, till then the squirrel has a tough time I tell you . I am determined onnmy mission born of emotions for the underdogs. And if it results even in a bump on the lined back of the irritating tiktikking nuisance, whom I found cute earlier but now find a villain due to the addition in my knowledge, I hardly care. I have turned mean in following my basic instincts guiding my emotions for the beautiful birds. I know it will play truant many times. I am but ready for the job. I have a weapon also in mind to punish it with. Taken out a flexible single strand of switch from my mother's Bamboo broom. It's waiting for the culprit. Though it won't harm the squirrel critically but I see it can definitely give her a painful back if she messes with my birdie friends. All the best little couple. Let there be a successful episode in your love tale.

Nice Guys can Win!

You need not be a rampaging bull, huffing and puffing with arrogance, to win. Nice guys can also win. They played like gentleman. No hyperboles. It's possible only if you take yourself to be a human first and a sports star later. They won. And went for a peaceful celebration with the people who matter to them. They are a product of a system that does not promote stardom over the basics of being common mortals. I salute their graceful walks and humble gestures as they moved back to the pavilion as the finalists. Kane Williamson looks a saint on hiatus from the hills who has taken to sports for some time for the reasons best known to himbonly. A pleasant diversion possibly. Whatever the reasons, it's but a treat to come across such graceful persona among hordes of mean machines designed to win at all costs. Grace in both winning and losing is what defines the basic framework of being a good sportsman, or being a good human, more importantly.