And
dear brothers and sisters, here goes the winters caravan. Definite signs of
climate change! Unprecedented fires somewhere, and icy blizzards at other
places. Here, in north India, it’s unprecedently frozen.
Homo-sapiens
beat other species of the genus Homo to rule and crowd the planet to its last
guts. Wait fella wait, great are the ways of evolution. Evolution doesn't end
with Homo-sapiens. It's but a brief coma, a tiny pause, a cute little interlude
before the juggernaut takes on further. Artificial intelligence will sow the
seeds of almost a different type of species of the genus Homo. The great AI
will do us what we did to other species in manipulating nature and depriving
them of their natural rights.
It
seems almost inevitable: the doomsday scenario born of unchecked ambitions of
the Homo Sapiens. But all nightmares and fears melt in the gentle heat of real-life
stories played by people like Lata Bhagwan Khare. They are the ones whose grand
spirit still throws a silver lining across the dark clouds.
She
hadn't anything. Well, not in the terms we are used to evaluate possessions.
Age wasn't on her side. She was 65. Poorest of the poor, the biggest
disadvantage! But she had wealth, a big mountain of it, in terms of subtle
intangibles. She had courage and conviction. And most importantly, she loved
her husband. They were a simple farming couple in a Maharashtra village, happy
in earning a day’s wage and look forward to another hard-worked but peaceful
day. When you learn to stay happy and joyful in the present, life turns a string
of shiny beads. Past doesn’t pinch you, the future doesn’t scare you. Life but
will have its share of tests and challenges. So, like all of us face, they also
faced one. The 70-year-old farm laborer fell sick. The treatment meant almost
that much amount which the poor couple hadn't seen in their entire life. But
she, a life-long equal partner in his life and living, was sure that she had to
save her husband at any cost. He may die, like all of us will one day, but not
on account of the unavailability of medical treatment. When people far younger
and far more privileged would have lost hope and surrendered to desperation,
she saw chance at life in the Marathi headlines on a greased local daily paper
piece she was using to hold the samosa they were eating. It announced a big
price for the winner of a Marathon soon to be organized. And the old woman with
a young spirit ran a marathon, barefoot, her sari tucked with determination,
her naked feet bleeding, and the mocking jeers of the spectators who took it as
a comic act worth their cheap entertainment. Very few have the depths of soul
to feel the mammoth struggles going inside a fellow human being. The woman won.
Beyond the story of laurels, to her it was simply a matter of money beyond the
finish line so that she could help her soulmate during his fight against the
disease. Enjoy the story of this courageous woman. A story of love basically!
Bask in her glory!
Let’s
pump a bit more warmth into the frozen bones and eyes that seem to have lost
hope through a bit of talk on ‘soulmateship’. I know we have an overestimated
view of our own validity and suitability to be an idealistic soulmate, provided
we come across someone suitable for our pre-existing suitability to be a
soulmate. Sounds a bit egoistic! In practical life, soulmateship is fabricated
and carefully formulated with conscious effort. Soulmates are delicately worked
upon relationships. We presume that we are a package and wait for the destiny
to make us meet our soulmates. Well, guys it doesn't work that way. Soulmates
are made. We never meet someone as soulmates. Don't expect to meet yours. Love,
that initial attraction and biological pull, is just the first step. After that
it's a long way to a careful walk on the road to turn someone's soulmate.
Beyond the categories of caste and class, soulmates like Lata and her husband
are what substantiate all about life and living. With such little realizations,
greatness is just one step and one breath away! Claim yours today itself!
Well,
we can discuss a bit more about love which is supposed to be the bedrock of any
relationship in cluding that of soulmates. I just point out a bit of advice to
all those into the business of soulmateship. Hate is not the opposite of love,
indifference is! You may ask, ‘How?’ Well, I give my feeble light on this. Take
it if you find it digestible.
See,
love and hate are almost the shadow of each other, just a thin line between
them. In fact, they may—ad they do on a routine basis—interchange. In fact, the
love—hate combo fuels each other. Beware, ‘indifference’ is what kills the soul
of a relationship. When the person doesn't matter anymore to you, not even
worth hate, that is when a relationship dies. So, indifference is the opposite
of love, not hate because even with hate, there is still a possibility, indifference
kills all prospects. Don’t allow indifference to creep in. It’s the termite for
the institution of soulmateship. Beyond the Love—Hate chemistry, the sole
purpose of being human is to consciously try to evolve spiritually. And your
love, beginning from self and those who are near to your self, is the ladder to
take you there.
Coming
to the more mundane wheels of life. Even in the frozen lanes of December
end streets, there are hot tempers and
frayed attitudes. I am too common of an Indian to add to the noisy Chorus about
NRC-CAA that has jolted India. in any case, the opposing notes from both ends
have turned it into a defeating Blizzard. I am more concerned about my little
issue. We haven't had electricity for the last 8 days in our village. To the
hell with both the opposing armies on the NRC-CAA battlefield! All I want is
restoration of electricity, so that I can continue reading with my 12 books
that I am reading simultaneously. My stock of candles is gone. Inverter supply
shrieked before calling it quits. I just want electricity. And most of you also
need the basic necessities of life. So kindly leave the battlefield my bruised,
bloodied and lacerated pro and anti NRC-CAA soldiers and come back home to find
out if there is flour in the bin, light in your bulb, drinkable water in your
pot, sewage channel in your street! Come brave hearts come! You have
participated in the historical battle, created enough history. Now return with
pride and loads of prejudices. And see the littlest things that also need your
benevolent look. Come home o my brave soldiers! All I need is this f***ing flicker
in my dead bulb so that I can read my books at night!
Beyond
the pitched ideological battles, this lonesome tree marvels at the humans’
ingenuity in fighting over fiction and be totally unaware of the facts. The
lonesome peepal! It’s left out as an insignia of the past. All around you see
the brown guts of tilled earth, where not even a single blade of grass isn’t
allowed without the distressed farmers’ permission. Just 40 years back, the
lonesome peeplal had a big family of trees around him. But then man-born
greater needs, call it greed, arose. The farmland now creeps over the horizon
like a deadly parasitic creeper. Let's see, how many more misty dusks remain in
its destiny?!
Under
the peepal, a mighty truth is written on the soiled stage of life. These are
the beautiful feathers of a bird, scattered as the aftermaths of life and
living. The scythe of time reaping the harvest intangibly, everywhere in all
directions. Colours melting back to seep int the womb of mother earth for
another step in the corridors of creation! Nearby, in the grayish black swathes
of a cold, frozen afternoon, a former colony of weaverbirds hangs like corpses
of once alive dreams. The cycle gone, the caravan moved ahead and the remnants!
An abandoned colony melting into the greyish dusk! Humans got any message?
Not
far from the lonesome peepal, among the grassy waste outside the main village
habitation, he has set up his very own colony for his son, daughter in law and
a noisy brood of grandchildren. All this is complemented by pigs, goats and
poultry. A world in itself. Sube Valmiki was young when we little ones hopped
over the banyan’s branches. Now it's a grandfatherly sage, so is Sube Singh and
me a greyish fatherly figure marveling how swiftly time flies!
His
sparse beard and thick moustache is snow white. His multicolored woolen cal and
shiny red blanket make him stand out as a milestone as he smokes hookah sitting
on his charpoy in front of his little world surrounded by wasteland and tufts
of bunchgrass which have been decimated by the frost. 'You are turning into an
old sadhu!' I tell him. He welcomes the compliment with a disarming smile. As a
child, I remember him as a sturdy youth working for us on some house repairs.
Now I am a greyish middle aged man and he is acquiring the golden shades of old
age. He has settled outside the village in a world of his own. His
grandchildren play with more verve and enthusiasm even than his little goats.
His pride possession, Moi Rani, the lady pig is tethered. Her long rows of
shiny teats along the udder a hallmark of its feminine fecundity. 'She is our
offering to Moi Mata! We keep her for non commercial purposes!' he says. Well,
i understand that she is a sort of offering to a local goddess. But I cannot
understand fully. 'Non commercial' doesn't make much of a meaning to me. Does
it mean her sons and daughters also go along the same way? Most probably not.
That would be taking one's faith too far! At the most, it may mean she will not
be sold for some bucks in the pocket, and won't be slaughtered to add to fun
and funstry on some celebratory occasion. Her pedigree i suppose is beyond the
deity's protection. Anyway, they don't think that deeply. And that is why they
can have a real laugh!
He
has even a pet raven. A feat in itself in taming a wild bird known for its
claim on independence and gaukish husky
kawing! He had chanced upon it under a tree, a mere meatball, waiting to become
something’s meal. He picked it up and showed astute mastery and common sense in
parenting it. The bird flows to enjoy freedom in free skis but acknowledges its
gratitude by coming back almost regularly and sit by him.
Raven
in
cuddling heaven!
Its
irritable kaw-kaw melting into bearable notes,
Its
erstwhile black monochrome, ewwe!
Glowing
now with a likeable hue,
Love
is the best form of truth and beauty,
Take
it as your conscious humanoid duty!
Back
home in my yard I have a little more reasons to smile over the frozen time. Rajnigandha
(Tuberose) smiles at long, long last! In fact after 1.5 years! It appeared to
have lost interest in life, living and smiles. Looked just a faded, forlorn
bunch of grass in the pot, waiting to be cast away for some better, more
attractive flower. Little did she realize that I have the patience of a
grandfatherly sea. I put away any idea of any replacement. Lo, here she
reciprocates with a lovely little bouquet! It's soooo fragrant! It seems to say
a gentle sorry for the delay! No worries baby! Better late than never! Even
long delayed smiles are better than any other alternative! Keep smiling? Nearby
is the Reddest Rose. Pouting heavenward as a passionate kiss from mother Earth
to the Sky, with loads of love of course! When the sky melts and goes down on
its knee to kiss the petalous hand of mother earth! A holy kiss! The daughter
of the yard, Hibiscus, has charted her journey from a pleasantly uncouth
toddler to a lithesome, curvey, confident young woman. She has delicately
touched the peak of her youth...vow...what a journey! And how can I ignore the
indomitable spirit of the garden cactus!? Her forefathers braved the desert
sands to bloom. She carries sturdy, hardy genes. Her flowers stay for months.
Amazing. Mercury hits the bottom, but they stay unperturbed! These are
five-petaled little red marvels that continue to kiss night frost and faded
sunrays with same enthusiasm! Little wonder they stay for weeks after weeks. Glory
be showered upon thou Garden Cactus. You beat the thorny ignominy to blossom up
a flowery smile. All you need to have a flowering smile is to overlook the
thorns. All of us have pinchy edges to our persona that pierce soft skins
around. Accept your own thorns. Forgive others for having the same. And all you
have is a bouquet of victory for all..smiles...smiles...smiles! And this
Parijat showers love like a crazy lover! A fragrant heap of love is found every
morning under it after the frozen wet nights. I give her an ounce of my care.
She multiplies it thousand times and showers me with heavenly drizzle of
scented dumplings. Thank you darling!
Outside
in the streets, a group of migrant Bihari laborer is moving in this cold to reach
the construction site where they are employed currently.
Their
dreams frequently suffer a break,
They
are but the ones who help others make!
An
old woman is walking behind them. She is going for morning rituals at the
temple. Devotion is the easiest means to realize the Ultimate. But out of
millions and millions of hardcore devotees, how many qualify to be real
devotees? Not many, I suppose! Simply because the majority of our devotion, in
the form of rituals, prayers and beliefs, falls in the category of a deal with
the object of our devotion. The moment your devotion becomes free of your
'deal', you take a quantum jump into realizing the hidden truths lying at every
nook corner.
In a
nearby chaupal, idle men are baulking in endless debates! Who says women are
talkative? Have a look at them! They can beat any number of women in chatting
on non-issues days after days, years after years. After a life-long war with
words how many of us realize the real meaning of knowledge and information?
True
knowledge, I suppose, is just coming home with the realization that all the
information fed in our neural network is only a means for survival, a mere tool
like a chair to sit upon. It also sets up the course for unknowing and
unlearning, and the consequent swiping the screen clean, to be in sync with the
intangible, but ever manifesting, intelligence in its undivided form. Logic,
words, knowledge and information are mere chisels and hammers to chip away the
mind-created stone from the huge rock of our assumed self, ego, and carve out a
dimensionless entity. So one's logic though can't take you to the Truth, but it
can at least help you in avoiding the tricks of the false. So guys pic up your
tools, but remember they are nothing more than a stonemason's instruments in
his rucksack as he moves to his stoneyard.
From
the ones who sound most affable to the ones pounding your nerves with obnoxious
ferocity, all of us are equally distant from the most presentable best 'truth',
simply because there is no absolute 'truth'. The only absolute truth may be
that there is no absolute truth. The so called truths are merely flimsy bubbles
floating in the sky. So guys glide freely cocooned in the bubble of your truth
with only this much caution that you don't crash too often into other's bubbles
floating around. This is what good and bad might be all about. Otherwise, this
existence does not even care what this hypothetical talk is about the
absolutes, sin, piousness, etc., etc.
When
my own voice starts disturbing me, I douse it under the all-overpowering notes
of the great mystic Osho. The rats of my mind go to sleep. Today, I remember him telling me:
‘Freedom
and equality are two opposite conditions. If you want to maintain equality,
then freedom can't be sustained. If you cherish freedom, you have to forget
equality. People can be cut to a tailor-made size of equality, but it won't be
possible without taking their freedom from them. You can't have equality other
than in jail. And even inside the jail, if there are some elements of utility
and convenience, inequality will creep in. So the jailor has to be stone like
hard and unsparing in approach to manage perfect equality. Complete equality is
possible only in a state of perfect subjugation and control. It should be so
tight that nobody gets a chance to be unequal to anyone. So if communism takes
control of earth, the entire planet will turn into a mammoth jail. Communism
can't succeed without jail.’
