A cosmetic smile Vs a soulful one

 A hybrid rose can have nice colour and exquisite design. But it lacks the basic essence of a flower, fragrance. The beauty is skin deep, a mere cosmetic effort at the surface. It's haughty and arrogant, a kind of constriction within itself, an insecurity, a fear, an aloofness, a seperation. The soul is missing. They seem too self-absorbed. Like so many apparently classy, well polished gentry. They stand with touch-me-not attitude. And the bees and butterflies stay away. They find it totally unapproachable. The marigolds, on the other hand, are little humble, down to earth flowers. They aren't showy. They are common looking. But they have a soul, a depth, a delicate fragrance. Most importantly, they have nectar to offer to the butterflies and bees. With their openness and genteel receptivity, they are buzzing with little winged insects. They have broader connection to life and living. I can feel their soul through their soft fragrance as I sit by them. They exist in a dimension where they touch many chords in my heart. The smelless roses are as distant and soulless as a beautiful pic of them or even well designed plastic flowers.

Open up...and spread out...

 Joyful dissolution of the self! A flower blooms up fully. Opens its heart to the elements around. Draws every ounce from its potential to smiles and fragrance. Opens up completely. And then painless dissolve! This dissolution is further expansion only. Now the petals fly around in a broader dimension. Beautiful, self-surrendered parts of its previous existence now lie scattered as pious homage to mother earth. That is the purpose of life. We have to give back something better than what we took. That is evolution, expansion. Like this flower offers fragrance and smiles to mother earth in return for the sunshine, soil and moisture. The sole purpose of our existence is to be a better version of ourselves.

Some bright thoughts on a gloomy smoggy day

 Feeling the heat? Don't worry, cool winds will pick up soon. Feeling cold? Worry not, the sun is just about to shine from the cloud's corner. Getting hunted? Don't worry there never is a prey who isn't a hunter itself. As the proverb goes, when it floods, the fish eat the ants. And as the waters recede and leave the ground dry, the ants eat the fish. The circumstantial winds are equally for and against all of us. So just dance to the tunes of life. Like grass does. Like flexible plants do. They dance and enjoy the most, open to the winds from all directions. No point in having a tiff with life. We may not have too much control over the music of life that beats around us. But we can surely take a jig and go for dancing the steps of our choice. Or even hop like a frog if you are dance-challenged like me. Hopping around is no less fun. Telling from personal experience.

**

Guys, individual freedom has always remained a fundamental ideal since historical times. However, it is not to be achieved by casting off all society and civilization or by going back to a so-called 'natural state'. The perfection of man, his freedom, his liberty, his happiness, and the growing mastery of his own destiny, all are dependent upon a clear understanding of certain laws of nature and society. We have to accept that both nature and society have worked according to these laws to enable us to get the idea of this so called 'freedom'. So the pursuit of the interest of the baby should not turn us blind to the interests of the mother.

**

Many a thing changed over the centuries. In fact almost everything changed to take a completely different shape and connotation. But the religious differences are the same. They seem beyond the pale of time. Blood-shedding and hate in the name of religion is the same. Is not it high time that the world community starts dismantling the hold of exclusivist religious principles on people and states? It is the time for an all-inclusive world religion, the religion of all humanity, humanism. It can have Allah, Jesus, Buddha, Hindu and other major Gods and deities of other sects in its fold. The main issue is how do we convince the beholders of Puritanism in various religions, particularly the fundamentalist Islamists, to see beyond the rigid confines of their unchanging tradition. Most of the religions are melting under the warm sun of internationalism. But the medieval icy blocks in the stream of Islam are holding their archaic laws and principles solidly crystallized like the polar snows. The question is, will Islam ever be lenient to the non-Muslims? Modern Islamists will have to dismantle the institutionalized psyche among the Muslim masses against the kafirs and welcome non-discriminatory universal brotherhood as His Holiness Prophet Mohammad envisioned. World peace and harmony depends on this question. If internationalism succeeds to liberate humanism buried under religious fanaticism, we can expect to have a peaceful world following the religion of humanism. In any case, religion has to be systematically dismantled to lay the foundation of a common world. China will attempt to do it with its atheist state policy. But that will turn this world a big jail. Better that it’s done under democratic principles.

**

Pick up a dry leaf and take out the carpenter ant that has got into the toilet seat. I sometimes rescue even house flies and mosquitoes. They will be a nuisance, one may say. But the chance to be a savior is too big a reward for such deterrent considerations. I try to keep my foot on a hold as a beetle crosses, or a skink crawls away, or a frog hops away. I know a tread of caution is for my own benefit. It will save me from a fall sometime in future. If you learn to not walk ove insects and beetles on the way, you will surely escape the thorns and potholes of life that come your way. If you can rescue an insect or bug of your dislike from a basket, basin or drain, you are prepared to forgive people. These tiny acts of salvage hone the spirit of sympathy, love and care in you. They blunt the edge of apathy and neglect that sees us turning a blind eye to so many unbecoming things around us, where we can bring a positive change without creating too much turbulence in our lives. It’s better to have a little bit of time to stop and take out a drowning beetle. If not for this, you will hardly try to save a drowning man in future. Goodness is a habit. It can be practiced. The vast workshop of life has so many tiny tables for us to carry out our little experiments. To me rescuing an elephant and saving an ant is more or less the same. That particular savior emotion is the main thing. So watch your step and avoid crushing insects unnecessarily. You gain a lot from it. You learn to be careful and responsible. Most of the times when we think we are helping others, we are in fact helping our own selves.

**

The first half of November is supposed to be the best. The winter is opening like a soft bud. The birds sing at their best. It proves it’s the best part of season. A beautiful, fluid mix of balmy cold and warmth. But we have turned it the worst. The metallic haze and toxic smog grips the skies like the steely talons of an eagle strung over the soft fur of a rabbit. The eyes burn. Throats ache. The sip of life, the air, turns a slow dose of death. The north Indian planes look like a huge prison. The sun looks pale and sick-faced as it peeks weakly over the polluted planet. But then even on such a sickly gloomy morning there are thousands of swallows flying in the sky. So many of them! With so many birds, it seems as if everything will be all right. The sky seems to bless the earth through these freely flying birds. It’s the time to plant more trees and flowers. It’s the time to walk a bit slower and do something that will leave the planet worth staying for the coming generation.

**

Most of the time our hate for someone is merely an instrument to undo and hide our own guilt about the incidents and happenings which took us to a point of unbridgeable differences with that person. Hate is a very convenient tool. It’s fuelled by anger. With the tools of hate and anger, it’s very easy to put all the blame on someone else for the fallouts. In our own court, the hammer of hate and anger sets our conscience free while holding the other party culpable for all the wrongs that have befallen.

**

All of us want to leave a mark on the running water and blowing air. And all of us fail. Only this unquenchable urge wins. But then maybe a bit of laziness is what we need after all this burnout. Slowing down helps avoid the explosion, both individual and collective. We have run too blindly and now stare at the edge of a blind drop. Treading carefully will save us. Walk slow and with poise.

**

A little ant is dragging the huge carcass of a carpenter ant. Hasn't creation got an instinct for carrying burden ingrained very deeply in its fabric? There is an everlasting pull for expansion and more complexity. How can we avoid complexity of life then? Going against the primal instinct is a sort of reverse engineering. This is the evolutionary challenge. A kind of lavitation instead of gravitation. Fording the river. The ultimate salvation. The cessation of the urge to pull the burden and still be joyful. A state where every burden transforms into bliss. Pull your burden little lady. But don't forget to rest under the shade of the fragrant roses on the way. They are as meaningful as the weight you pull. And the journey turns joyful if you pause and greet the flowers on the way. And don't forget to acknowledge the presence of thorns on the path as well. Just be careful of them as they have their meaning also. They are there to help you watch your step and avoid a fatal fall. A bit of pinch now and then serves it purpose because it maybe avoids a fatal fall in the long run.

**

A powder blue beauty is seen in the washbasin. A woodlouse, a dweller of old, rotten woods. Maybe it got its adventure too far and landed into the basin. Now it's a fun game, go up and slump down again. Maybe they take their struggles as easily as feasting and fun. So here it goes with its business. I take a pic and since it's a patient model for the shoot, it gets its reward. It gets rescued on a dry leaf and I leave it near a pile of dead wood. It's a very interesting little bug. Look at the range of its names: Granny grey in Wales, boat-builder in Newfoundland, Butcher boy in Australia, Carpenter in Labrador, Charlie pig in Norfolk, Cheesy Lou, Cheesy papa, Cheesy pig, Daddy grampher, Dandy postman, Fat pigs, Grumper pig, Granny grunter and scores of more interesting names. In every English county it has a different name. It can be a good pet for buggy parents. And is, most importantly, harmless for humans as it doesn't spread diseases. So raise a brood and give them as many names as your funny creativity allows you because they take name-calling very easily and in good spirits.

**

The hare may have its huffing and puffing competitiveness. But it lives very anxiously. A tortoise, on the other hand, goes on its journey that isn't defined in terms of mileage and distances. It's both joy and motion at the same time. Welcome to the snaily pace of the tortoise world! Here you acknowledge the smile of a wayside wild flower and greet the lone beetle on its journey.

**

And now dear earthlings, the winter softly coos: 'Dear, I'll cool down the burning hot field of realities that tortures your soft feet!' Open up to the invitation. Give mother nature a helping hand. She will put our house in order far too soon than we believe. But we have to do our bit first. Please resolve to plant a few trees and see them grow up strong with mandatory post-plantation care.

**

A bit of chik-chik in the lung-busting smog

 Isn’t life all about taking smart, clever as well as wise short-cuts to beat the puzzling array of the problems randomly cropping around us? The cosmic life is an expansion for more sophistication. And our individual entity as a part of the whole is an expression of that expansion. As the newest of patterns—which look like problems to us—pop up around us, the sole purpose of a meaningful life is to keep the inherent simplicity that forms the foundation of all the lateral sprouts and shoots in the game of creation. So be the solution provider. It’s the hallmark of a life well lived. Behind the most complex of a phenomenon there is an amazing simplicity. Read that. Those cute fundamentals will tell you that every situation is a living being and we are a cute aide-de-camp to the bigger game around. So don’t lose heart as the sandstorms hit. Keep walking. Always there are the easiest of routes to the toughest of destinations. Every hard situation has the softest of a solution. So there is no hard problem in the real sense. Our solutions make them so. When in the face of a tough situation blame your solution not the situation. Situations stand neutral like the fundamental laws of science and nature. Play your game well. Let it be a fine innings before being recalled to the pavilion. Most importantly, the meaning of ‘universe’ is ‘one unified song’. Listen to the symphony. It has a soft and sympathetic message for you only. Listen to these delicate murmurs and it will help you in breaking the hardest of superficial, outer cores. And as you dive deeper, the surface turbulence is left behind leaving you in the pools of peace. Dive well!

**

Usually weaknesses and inhibitions end up being taken as goodness. Most of the people never had the opportunity to misuse their endowments and power—which makes us qualify people as mean or bad—thus ending up as nice fellows. Empower the people economically, or any other means qualifying as empowerment, and then wait and watch. I think, most of the people whom we count as good fellows are simply helpless. I have seen a few really good fellows who are empowered at many levels and still count a human as a human irrespective of caste, class or creed.

**

Taiwan of course will be part of China one day in future. But it will be the mainland going with the island not vice-versa. The model of monopoly and autocracy is inherently weak. It is bound to collapse. The only matter is about time. Of course we will have a democratic, unified China one day. But a sinking ship sucks in a lot of water. The communists will, no doubt, breed a lot of mischief before that. Its repercussions will reach far ends of mother earth.

**

Hinduism is the primal faith on mother earth. It has the deepest roots as far as faith is concerned. Brahmanism is far smaller as a philosophy. It’s merely a particular approach to the socio-political and economic domain of our society followed by a group of Hindus. Brahmanism, I would say, doesn’t constitute even 10% of Hinduism. It’s a very small cult to assert socio-political and economic hegemony of a small section of Hindus. No problem with that. It’s always about dominance by one group or the other. The problem arises when these adherents of only 10% of Hinduism hold the rest by neck and try to portray Brahmanism as the entire Sanatan Dharma. Brahmanism is lucrative and swashbuckling to influence shallow minds to gain parochial advantage. I don’t have any problem even with it. The only issue is, please don’t tell me that Brahmanism is Hinduism. It’s attractive I know because there is a great show and turbulence on the surface. But Brahmanism is merely little pieces of foam among the waves in the universal sea of Hinduism.

When there are many birds in the sky!

 The first half of November is supposed to be the best. The winter is opening like a soft bud. The birds sing at their best. It proves it’s the best part of season. A beautiful, fluid mix of balmy cold and warmth. But we have turned it the worst. The metallic haze and toxic smog grips the skies like the steely talons of an eagle strung over the soft fur of a rabbit. The eyes burn. Throats ache. The sip of life, the air, turns a slow dose of death. The north Indian planes look like a huge prison. The sun looks pale and sick-faced as it peeks weakly over the polluted planet. But then even on such a sickly gloomy morning there are thousands of swallows flying in the sky. So many of them! With so many birds, it seems as if everything will be all right. The sky seems to bless the earth through these freely flying birds. It’s the time to plant more trees and flowers. It’s the time to walk a bit slower and do something that will leave the planet worth staying for the coming generation.

Slow down please!

 Pick up a dry leaf and take out the carpenter ant that has got into the toilet seat. I sometimes rescue even house flies and mosquitoes. They will be a nuisance, one may say. But the chance to be a savior is too big a reward for such deterrent considerations. I try to keep my foot on a hold as a beetle crosses, or a skink crawls away, or a frog hops away. I know a tread of caution is for my own benefit. It will save me from a fall sometime in future. If you learn to not walk over insects and beetles on the way, you will surely escape the thorns and potholes of life that come your way. If you can rescue an insect or bug of your dislike from a basket, basin or drain, you are prepared to forgive people. These tiny acts of salvage hone the spirit of sympathy, love and care in you. They blunt the edge of apathy and neglect that sees us turning a blind eye to so many unbecoming things around us, where we can bring a positive change without creating too much turbulence in our lives. It’s better to have a little bit of time to stop and take out a drowning beetle. If not for this, you will hardly try to save a drowning man in future. Goodness is a habit. It can be practiced. The vast workshop of life has so many tiny tables for us to carry out our little experiments. To me rescuing an elephant and saving an ant is more or less the same. That particular savior emotion is the main thing. So watch your step and avoid crushing insects unnecessarily. You gain a lot from it. You learn to be careful and responsible. Most of the times when we think we are helping others, we are in fact helping our own selves.

The busy ant

 Hasn't creation got an instinct for carrying burden ingrained very deeply in its fabric? There is an everlasting pull for expansion and more complexity. How can we avoid complexity of life then? Going against the primal instinct is a sort of reverse engineering. This is the evolutionary challenge. A kind of lavitation instead of gravitation. Fording the river. The ultimate salvation. The cessation of the urge to pull the burden and still be joyful. A state where every burden transforms into bliss. Pull your burden little lady. But don't forget to rest under the shade of the fragrant roses on the way. They are as meaningful as the weight you pull. And the journey turns joyful if you pause and greet the flowers on the way. And don't forget to acknowledge the presence of thorns on the path as well. Just be careful of them as they have their meaning also. They are there to help you watch your step and avoid a fatal fall. A bit of pinch now and then serves it purpose because it maybe avoids a fatal fall in the long run.

The tale of Cheesy Papa

 A powder blue beauty is seen in the washbasin. A woodlouse, a dweller of old, rotten woods. Maybe it got its adventure too far and landed into the basin. Now it's a fun game, go up and slump down again. Maybe they take their struggles as easily as feasting and fun. So here it goes with its business. I take a pic and since it's a patient model for the shoot, it gets its reward. It gets rescued on a dry leaf and I leave it near a pile of dead wood. It's a very interesting little bug. Look at the range of its names: Granny grey in Wales, boat-builder in Newfoundland, Butcher boy in Australia, Carpenter in Labrador, Charlie pig in Norfolk, Cheesy Lou, Cheesy papa, Cheesy pig, Daddy grampher, Dandy postman, Fat pigs, Grumper pig, Granny grunter and scores of more interesting names. In every English county it has a different name. It can be a good pet for buggy parents. And is, most importantly, harmless for humans as it doesn't spread diseases. So raise a brood and give them as many names as your funny creativity allows you because they take name-calling very easily and in good spirits.

An invitation for laziness

 The hare may have its huffing and puffing competitiveness. But it lives very anxiously. A tortoise, on the other hand, goes on its journey that isn't defined in terms of mileage and distances. It's both joy and motion both at the same time. Welcome to the snaily pace of the tortoise world! Here you acknowledge the smile of a wayside wild flower and greet the lone beetle on its journey.

Some thoughts in support of a Smile

 Victory gives you a trophy; failure gives you a chance to fight for a still bigger one. Keep going. But never miss the beautiful scenes of life on both sides of your path. As long as you enjoy the free bouquets of nature around, life no longer gets defined in victory-defeat terms. It acquires a larger dimension. It turns meaningful by itself. And joy and happiness turn the natural, unconditional fruits of the path. Journey well. Never miss your smile.

**

Well there never was a destination. The only destination has been to move from a painful journey to a joyful one. It's a very subtle change in gears: From the outer shadows--which are ever shifting and fleeting--to the inner substance which is ever unperturbed and waiting for the journeyman to come home at long last.

**

So much for the conceptualized set of sins and vices. We have too hypothetical concepts to tame the basic instincts in humans. A vice is not a vice everywhere. A so called 'vice' with larger motivation loses its dark shades. Without a supportive chorus in the background, it again becomes a loathsome act in abstract. But there is hardly anything in total abstractness, except in the pages of books and the brains revising these for one-upmanship to win a point. Reality is too muddled up. There is hardly any vice that goes totally unjustified. And rarely a virtue that stands perfectly justified. Read Dostoevsky's Gambler. It treats gambling as a viceful and then not so viceful art driven by the pure psychosis of a helpless heart mad after the chancy windfalls of win and loss and even beyond.

**

Now I understand why economically challenged households have bigger treasure in the form of children. As Mr. Micawber says in David Copperfield:

"In our children we live again, and that, under the pressure of pecuniary difficulties, any accession to their number is doubly welcome."

**

To lead a successful social life, invest in a few relations wisely and with soft emotions. Work and behave with people in a manner as to have two or three persons who will always have a room for you in their house, half a dozen at least who will always have a chair for you at their dining table, a few dozen who will always have softness for you in their hearts and a few hundred who will surely smile at you as you pass them. This, dear readers, is the hallmark of a peaceful, happy, mundane life of a common man. If the ingredients of joy are so earthly, why aim for cosmic shots then to find meaning in life?

**

While we fret, fume and get frustrated for the things that we don't have, feeling wronged both by the system and destiny, there are people we carry on uncomplaining, even though they have just a fraction of what we have, but deserve 100 times more than us. Just give a careful look around. We have many in our locality itself so there is no need to pack bags and search in far of lands. Doesn't it makes you feel the luckiest of the lot. A sense of gratitude needs this much of attention.

Many times we think we don't have enough for our talent. So many times we crib about having less for what we do. But then there are the lives who could have been better than any of us just that they were born in a ditch and circumstances never allowed them to come out. I see scores of such unsung heroes on a daily basis and find myself humbled and cut down to my real size.

**

What are tough circumstances? They are just some sick moments needing doctoring from you. Take the pulse of difficulties. Analyse impartially like a doctor. Put up the diagnosis. Prescribe a solution and come out hale and hearty.

**

Don't take life as a mystery. It's an open book. Each line has just one message: The time you are allowing to slip away without celebrating my existence (and your own -- both are same by the way) will never come back. So celebrate life. Light new lamps of exuberance, fresh dreams, undying enthusiasm, unrelenting creativity and many more. Happy Diwali everyone!

**

A continuous run is no fun without rest, repose and pause. Inviting you to slow down and have a bit of rest...fast mode has no meaning without the slow mode. A run is fruitless without rest. In any case we have to stop to reap the rewards of our running, huffing and puffing...

**

A little song book of eternal hope, love and loss. A cup of tea brewed with night blooming jasmine flowers. A perfect date on partially sunny warm day! Ordinary has the hallmark of perfection. What else one needs in life?!

**

The potted rose has turned into a heavy bouquet of roses. Giving its best shot at life! You no longer fear death once you have given your best to life and blossom the potential mother nature has given you. Smile full and sadness vanishes. Light fully and darkness turns on its heels. And what is a flower? It's simply mother earth smiling as you carefully caress a bit of soil with loving hands. We create blossoms with our emotions. The potential is already there. What we need is a gentle emotion and a bit of smile to create something that adds to mother earth's smile.

**

And now dear earthlings, the winter softly coos: 'Dear, I'll cool down the burning hot field of realities that tortures your soft feet!' Open up to the invitation. Give mother nature a helping hand. She will put our house in order far too soon than we believe. But we have to do our bit first. Please resolve to plant a few trees and see them grow up strong with mandatory post-plantation care.

Be a creator

 Giving its best shot at life! You no longer fear death once you have given your best to life and blossom the potential mother nature has given you. Smile full and sadness vanishes. Light fully and darkness turns on its heels. And what is a flower? It's simply mother earth smiling as you carefully caress a bit of soil with loving hands. We create blossoms with our emotions. The potential is already there. What we need is a gentle emotion and a bit of smile to create something that adds to mother earth's smile.

An invitation for laziness to see the truth in slow mode

 A continuous run is no fun without rest, repose and pause. Inviting you to slow down and have a bit of rest...fast mode has no meaning without the slow mode. A run is fruitless without rest. In any case we have to stop to reap the rewards of our running, huffing and puffing...

The puppy-touch of unconditional love

 If one fish can spoil the entire pond, can a single lotus do the same from the side of beauty? Well, it serves a big purpose if we believe so. Let’s believe that an ounce of goodness is enough to counterbalance tons of evil. This belief itself serves a big purpose. It keeps the hope alive for love, joy and compassion.

**

It is so easy to react on impulse to the instincts driven by hate and revenge, and so difficult to postpone the very same, think coolly, and take calculated measures and respond. Our success and standing in life is decided by the time gap between raw impulse and cool deliberation. As we move towards lessening this gap we take a firmer grip on the wheel of life. There comes a time when impulsive reaction and cool deliberation merge into one. Then you are in the driving seat and this mind your servant. In that position, you create, you become a creator. You are no longer a piece of mere creation. 

**

A stray puppy licked my hands...its tiny tail wagging with loads of greetings. It was so friendly, so pure and honest. The puppy feels far more loving than so many smart humans having super-egos who just love to hiss and bite...hiss and bite....hiss and bite! 

**

Dark is the poor sidekick of light. It just exists to provide a canvas on which the multihued colors of light get painted in dazzling arrays and patterns.

**

What is the difference between love and infatuation? Infatuation is that glittering fake jewel that glitters like most of the modern things in design, pattern and finish. Love is the real gold, smiling unceremoniously with its subdued colors and toned-down purity. And all of us are jumping over the barbed wires of infatuation, our emotions bleeding, to reach the compound of love.

Maradona

 The archetypal distressed genius, Maradona, who wrote the shimmering lines of his life with his left foot (and left hand), died on November 25 at the age of 60. He always courted skirmishes on and off the field. Beginning as a cheeky burglar involved in daylight robbery, the destiny catapulted him to become the audacious marauder playing tricks with feigns, passing steps and acceleration and stops and side turns. It flummoxed the opponents.  

He had a tendency to steer around the normal as much as he veered around the defenders. To him the world itself looked like he was in a stadium, sidestepping over social norms and sometimes even the law. No wonder, he remained a pleasant, unbridled, obese trickster even long after he hang his boots. An unfettered and effervescent spirit, we may say.

The stocky paragon of Argentina pride inspired a fierce devotion. To the millions of his followers, it was a quasi-religious experience. You could love him or hate him, but you couldn’t ignore him. His innings on this planet has turned out to be a eulogy to a life in tantalizing excess ranging from superstardom to drugs to domestic abuse to guns to cocaine to involvement with organized crime: A lotus out of the muddled tumult of muddy waters. Or we can say, it was an awe-inspiring darkness coupled with the silver-lining of his genius.

He flirted with football with an impetuous cunningness. Moderation and discipline wasn’t in his dictionary for it was a testimony to excess in all he did and thought. A banner sums it up: ‘It does not matter what you have done with your life, it matters what you have done with our lives.’ He was indeed a heady rock star who commanded the stage.

‘I am Maradona, who makes goals, who makes mistakes. I can take it all, I have shoulders big enough to fight with everybody…’ He gave enough credit to his vaunting words through his Aztecan sorcery with football at the Mexico stadium.    

From winning the 1986 world cup indisputably single handedly to be unceremoniously kicked out of the 1994 event on doping charges, he dribbled between glory and ignominy. God was with him through ‘the hand of the god.’ At one end of his excellence, he is credited with the goal of the century. But then his gluttony for goals in life included food, alcohol and drugs also. In fact, Maradona and moderation never fitted in closely. From a lithe demigod of an athlete, he went on to turn into a sniggering puffed up drugs addict. From holding the world cup, and the consequent slaloming into countless hearts, to barely holding his life in his fist after a cocaine-born heart failure twenty years ago, he had hit crest and trough of life without injuring his reputation.

The ‘Hand of God’ punching the ball into the English net during the 1986 world cup quarter finals. His ruggedness was pinching but his playing style was far more bewitching. In his football mad home country, he was the quintessential ‘Golden Boy’. Like he out-jumped the England goalkeeper Peter Shilton, almost twice his height, feigning to head but hoodwinking the referee by patting the ball with his left hand, to score the ‘Hand of God’ goal, he jumped over literally all norms to score goals and lead life the way his free-will dictated.

Who can forget the goal of the century!? Just four minutes after the ‘hand of god’, he hoodwinked all realistic expectations even from normal geniuses. His 44 strides in 11 seconds involving 12 touches gave us the greatest goal of the century. The 1986 Mexico world cup belonged to one man only. He madly burst into boxes. He crazily brushed off defenders. He maniacally squared off the ball towards the net. He magically outmuscled his tall and giant-type markers. His stinging left footers would be drawn to the net even from the toughest angle. Like a farmer ploughs through soil, his flicks and dribbles scythed through a slew of defenders and hapless goalkeepers. The blast of raw energy through his stocky bundle of animalistic muscles left him an autocrat on the turf.

Polarity melted in the photogenic blizzard of his dazzling runs. He was an angel as well as a devil, a rogue and a genius in the same vein. He was too far from the singularity of existence and very near some unpredictable multitude. He was reckless, brazen, desperado, sublime, elegant and graceful in a space of few minutes between the ‘Hand of the God’ to the ‘goal of the century’, the latter almost divine in terms of its guts and audacity. He gathers the ball to his side in the stadium, swings and opens up two defenders, blazes on like a bursting comet, chest puffed out, his tongue leering and jeering and cutting across like a knife through butter, cutting the moorings of a posse of 7 English defenders to romp home to glory. This mesmeric run is unsurpassed. Those 11 seconds, and a run of 60 yards, beginning from his yard to the final romping home after rounding the English goalkeeper, involving stepping on the ball, setting right, left and forward thrusts like a brute steam engine, the opposition scattered in disarray, he creates history. Just four years after the Falklands Islands war, where his country lost to the opponents on the turf now, he had given enough to the entire nation to forget the bruise and celebrate victory on the playground. The sweet redemption, almost a kind of salvation for the millions of souls.     

The stocky and strangely built spiral of life from a small shanty town to superstardom had glorious twists as well as dark knots of drug addiction in his stormy flings with life. He flirted with death with as much ease as he did with the ball, the crazy behemoth.

As the supernova preparing to die out with a dazzle, the tantalizing little giant had to be lifted out of his seat as a bloated behemoth during a world cup match in Russia in 2018.

Imagine his hold on the psyches of fans across continents. A band of Egyptian bandits freed a group of Argentine tourists after coming to know that they were from Maradona’s country.  A hero for the disadvantaged and unprivileged, his pics on T-shirts boosted the morale of those who were born in slums but had stars in their eyes.

His moves, both on the field and in the larger arena of life, were sublime, uplifting, farcical, even tragic, all mixed in an out-of-normal concoction. His outspoken tongue gave a good company to his magical left foot in expressing the bulging life and spirit in him. No wonder he was a salvation to an entire generation of Argentina.  

His casket lay at the state presidential palace draped in national flag and his famous number 10 jersey displayed before the final rights. Three days of national mourning becoming that of a head of the state. Here lay the almost singular hope of the country throttled by the military junta, economic backwardness and defeat in the Falklands war. Such full of life men come once in a rare while. Rest in peace brother Maradona!

The best flower

 Treat of the day! The tiny sadabahar in the crack of the wall bears a flower. There are hundreds of bigger flowering plants on the ground having dozens of petalous smiles. What makes this little flower exceptional? An entire season’s rains slipped down the wall. It’s not in mother earth’s lap where she stores water for her kids. It just has a hairline crack in the plastered wall to cling to its moisture of survival. Thousands of water drops slip away and then just an ounce of water may be clings to the narrowest root space. Fed like pampered children, the garden has hundreds of flowers. But this solitary flower high on the plastered wall is special. Blossoming is no slave to the conventional parameters of height, weight, the soil around roots, nutrition, the amount of rain or any other circumstantial fact. It’s only about giving the best with what you have. Given its tough conditions, this tiny flower grew in millimeters, while the rest of the more privileged flowers on the ground grew in inches. Their life might be measured in feet and hundreds of flowers. But what is exceptional about the fact of their existence? They are the happy-go-lucky types. Their smiles stand on mother earth’s piety. This but is a brave flower. It clung to survival, just staying a couple of inches of a fragile sapling high in the wall in the hot sweltering summer heat. It waited and waited with patience for more rains and when they came it added a couple of more inches to its height and there comes the flower. It’s basically about reaching home and fulfilling your destiny irrespective of the circumstances. What we get isn’t in our hands, but what we do with what we have is surely our calling. The smile of this flower is worth hundreds of lesser mortals in the garden below. It’s a proud flower, no wonder it’s there high in the air above the rest. 

So dear friends, please avoid the mistake of cribbing about your circumstances of life. A lot many things definitely lie beyond our control. It’s better to accept certain facts. Take it as destiny. But that’s just half of the story. With what has been given to you by the quirks of fate, you are in the driving seat and juggle your pieces to make your own destiny. Like this little plant does. It blossoms a flower in the toughest of a situation and completes its journey, fulfils its meaning of being a flower. You too can blossom your flower with what you have been given. So forget about what you don’t have, just make use of what you have. You too are up for a flowery reward. Best wishes!

A butterfly by the fireside

 I am all for animal rights and against people using them in street circuses. Still I cannot help but feel the pining nostalgia of the monkey charmers during our grand old days in childhood. Those were the only well-behaved monkeys. Nicknamed Ramlal, Dharmender, Basanti, etc., clad in baby frocks and shirts, they were almost the devatas of the simian world. Holding a stick on his shoulders, Dharmender walked on two legs to bring his wife Basanti from her mayaka. And Basanti would say no to come back. He would then dance and put on goggles to woo her back. The little street show would proceed without even a single piece of the simian mischief! Why are people looking for the eighth wonder of the world? It already has been witnessed by so many of us.

Well that was past. The times have changed. Do you remember the terrace pole overlooking the open bathroom below in the house having four adolescent farmer girls? The crow’s favorite perch point. A monkey thinks why should the crow have all the fun. So it has grabbed the pointed hot seat and is hanging at the top end. If the motive is the same as that of the crow then it almost falls within the criminal jurisprudence of the humans because the offender is very near to us in inclinations and gene pool. The stalker has to be brought to justice. On my part, I am praying that the pole’s top end itself does justice where the peeping tom is trying to settle its red bottom at the moment.

A monkey has to drink water but then it has to topple the vessel holding the water as well. You wonder, was drinking just a side effect and the main motive being to topple it to raise a blasting noise. A clay pitcher makes a muffled thud. Unfortunately it gives this sound only once. My stock of clay pitchers is over. The monkeys have had a lot of fun with them. They seem to be furthering the interest of the pot-makers. This is a kind of use and throw fun game for the monkeys. Now the metallic ones are doing their service. Here the monkeys face a slight bit of inconvenience. The metal utensils make a sharp clattering sound and the funster has to run away with its impact after the lewd dose of rufianism. It’s better to turn an applauding spectator to their follies. What is the use of boiling blood with no effect?  

Just now another monkey is doing its best to derive some fun in the most unorthodox manner. There is a house under construction. On the terrace is a half-finished pillar having naked iron bars at the upper end. It’s trying its level best to turn it into the thorniest crown in the world. It must be very confident about its red bum bearing up with the risk. It’s within its rights to do so but I find it pretty foolish even by their standards. Some immature girl monkey may applaud his feat but the slightest mishap will turn him the laughing stock of both the human and simian worlds. Organizing its fickle mind in an unlikely way, it manages to sit right on top of the iron bars and looks with a kingly attitude and royal majesty. Maybe sitting on the iron bars testing the strength of the bum from below gives a totally different view of the world.      

The season is changing at long last. There are faded traces of autumn. In late morning, when the sunrays have gentle warmth, the kittens sprawl for the laziest sleep on the windswept terrace among the neem windfalls. The house crickets, the brown denizens of the nocturnal chorus, also sleep under the items they deem immobile and safe for the day. I just love disturbing them. Shake the covering off and they hop around sleepily and take a vow to drill more holes in the clothing where they can sneak in for better sleep. The winters will come after all.

On vintage autumn nights, tremulous dew-stars kiss the seasonless silence spread over the lips of darkness. Someone’s exhausted sobs and ceaseless moans now dive forever into the measureless serenity of the slumbering eternity. A peasant woman has been crying late into the night. There has been a loss somewhere. The high tide of darkness swallows the star. And the gloom adds to its invisible shades to the far.

A cow has been lowing throughout the night to get a mate. She is in heat and the farmer will surely get up with a smile in the morning because it means the prospects of fresh milk for his children. It’s definitely good news even for the village bull who hulks around looking for such chances of the fresh milk arriving at the house of the farmers.

A drunkard farmer had to be slapped first and then thrashed nicely by his tired wife late at night after he won’t stop his acrobatics at the village square. He cannot do much as of now and bears up with the punishment. But a hard kick prods out a slurred threat that he will see her in the morning. ‘In the morning my brothers will arrive to beat you even harder,’ she tells him. Then he allows himself to be dragged into the house. I have information from very credible sources that even after all this violence outside, they have pretty busy lovemaking session right after.

Reading all through the night is fun sometimes. Try it sometime. You share the night’s little mysteries and welcome a new day like a kind host. The day smiles in gratitude. Across the misty, cool, dewy horizon, I feel a new sun, a new fireball with blessing warm rays.

It’s a beautiful morning. The humid restlessness of the rainy season is gone and the autumnal ease now assuages the spirits. A dragonfly is resting on a sadabahar flower. Its wings stretched to perfect horizontal. It has slept late. Did it go for a type of night revelry? I tease it for its night fun and tickle at the pointed back end of its slim body. It isn’t eager to get awake and just pulls it into a kind of yawning morning-time curve. Her wings are but too precious to her. Try touching them and it is wide alert and flies away for a busy day. A butterfly, a common mormon, is also sleeping late on a cluster of night blooming jasmine. The Parijat tree is a veritable shower of beautiful, fragrant white flowers. They drizzle down with the rise of the sun. All around her there is a scented drizzle of little flowers. May be it’s a boozed up butterfly who had extra fun among the night blooming jasmine flowers and is now sleeping late in the morning. A chatty tailorbird but doesn’t like the late risers and awakens the butterfly with its exuberant vocals. The butterfly flies away to make the most of the few days that mother existence has given in its kitty to fulfill the purpose of its life.

The song of the birds picks up its tempo. Three pigeons fly with a friendly banter; five ducks fly in a slanted line (there aren’t as many as would allow them to form a V pattern because the water bodies have vanished and so have the visiting ducks); a lone heron flies slowly with the unhurried pace of an old gentleman; a few house sparrows dart swiftly; the dainty and handsome Indian magpie robin hops on the parapet wall (seems happy, maybe got a lover and is now joyfully silent after singing love songs in plenty for almost a week). The morning has picked up nicely.

The sky is relieved of its duty of bearing the clouds on its back. Having shed all that it had to give, it now looks fresh and light. Two peacocks are also feeling very light after shedding their plumes. The weight of love is gone. Of course, love is a very weighty issue these days. They are now pecking and preening themselves pretty freely. They are quite friendly to each other because now there is no competition for winning love in their favor. I think the life of singlehood is quite light and one can be at ease like they are now. They can fly for more distances as well.

The village has seen a lot of development around it. It has now canals and roads all around it. It is good. We need canals for water and roads for speedier movement. They did a fantastic job and at a great speed as if they are in a hurry. They have been very busy in making roads and missed quite simple things such as water drainage system and culverts to allow the rain water go down south and fall into the seasonal distributaries of Yamuna. So the ancient natural waterways are choked. Since we have had excess rains this season, the surrounding farmlands and the village got filled up like a water bowl. They now use big water bumps to take out the excess water. We humans know how to be busy almost all the time. We are very serious about creating problems and then we get onto finding solutions for the same very diligently. And that keeps us very busy. It’s good to plan development but we shouldn’t run to develop. I think a leisurely walk to development will do better because we retain our common sense while doing so and don’t goof up to commit silly mistakes. Rampant development leaves many loopholes and then we have to spend a lot of energies in finding solutions for our self-created problems.

When I hold my three-month-old niece in my hands, I somehow feel fulfilled with love and care. It’s a privilege to stand by her as she fights her way out of multiple complications. Her one smile is enough to make one forget thousand miseries of life. That’s what I try: Make her smile. And when it comes, that pure smile, I feel like hitting a treasure instantly. She scans the cloud patterns as I hold her in my arms, curious to know the strange ways of this world. May be till they are infants, they see angels in the skies above.

When things around appear too complex, I pick up Bond Sahab’s book. Immediately the layers of complexity peel off and you see simplicity and purity of a world that all of us have the option to view. His books train your mind to view life in simpler terms. Iranian movies are Bond Sahab’s cinematic equivalent in taking you to a little world of simpler facts of life. The Willow Tree but seems too serious for an Iranian movie. There is a kind of drama that is typical of our movies. A professor gets his eyesight after 40 years. There is a chasm between his feelings and what he wants to see. He wants to make up for the lost decades and wants to see more and more of life. The face of his wife, the angel who held his hand during the dark days, now appears too ordinary in comparison to the beautiful women around.

Ranna’s Silence again is a beautiful little story. Little 5-year-old Ranna stops speaking after someone steals her hen, Kakoli. So loved her hen so much that hearing fox or wolf alarm beats in the fields, on the way to her school, she would run back to ensure the safety of her hen. As she lost her hen, she disowned her smile and beautiful words also. Well, she was instantly the same girl as of before as the thief realized his mistake and returned the hen. Watch it if you want to feel how small things can help us build a peaceful, simple world around us.

Hardeep comes to visit and shares the life lesson given by his father. ‘Never go to Delhi if you can manage it at Sonipat, the nearest city. And never go to the city if you can manage it at the village itself,’ he says. Well, I think it’s basically an injunction about unnecessary loitering around. As an adolescent boy he became very curious about Delhi and bunked school to wander around in the Delhi crowd for the day. His father came to know. He asked his mother to prepare a very tasty sweet halwa. Hardeep ate to his full thinking he has been rewarded for possibly becoming the family record holder who reached Delhi at the youngest age. So he ate to his full and took happy burps. Then his father very affectionately put his hand on his shoulder as they walked to their field by the canal. It was a grove of fruit trees and handsome flowers that was enough to uplift anyone’s spirits. There was just one oddity in all this. There was a terribly prickly plant in between. His father made him stand by the prickly plant and tied a rope bringing the boy and the plant in good bonhomie. Then he whipped him with a rope and made him shout ‘I will never go to Delhi’ 1001 times. ‘He saved me from doom, my kind father,’ he says. He is a trucker and a farmer now who tries to avoid bookings to Delhi even if they pay him extra.

We had a little hawan for our angel. Panditji’s son missed on most of the Sanskrit slokas. He seems very good at eating choicest delicacies served by the host though. He is very cute and one can see the effect of the hosts’ offerings on his chubby self. He made the mahamritunjya mantra sound like some Latin hymn. He looked very apt for eating copious food after the rituals but mastering the slokas is, frankly speaking, not his domain. The old Pandit looked helplessly and then took it upon himself to somehow salvage his honor. The goodwill for him will at least see his son getting good charity for his mispronounced half-slokas. It’s basically about respect. Out of the custom of respect, we would accept wrong slokas as well. What is wrong in that? Even the wrong slokas chanted with good intentions will serve its purpose.                     

Treat of the day! The tiny sadabahar in the crack of the wall bears a flower. There are hundreds of bigger flowering plants on the ground having dozens of petalous smiles. What makes this little flower exceptional? An entire season’s rains slipped down the wall. It’s not in mother earth’s lap where she stores water for her kids. It just has a hairline crack in the plastered wall to cling to its moisture of survival. Thousands of water drops slip away and then just an ounce of water may be clings to the narrowest root space. Fed like pampered children, the garden has hundreds of flowers. But this solitary flower high on the plastered wall is special. Blossoming is no slave to the conventional parameters of height, weight, the soil around roots, nutrition, the amount of rain or any other circumstantial fact. It’s only about giving the best with what you have. Given its tough conditions, this tiny flower grew in millimeters, while the rest of the more privileged flowers on the ground grew in inches. Their life might be measured in feet and hundreds of flowers. But what is exceptional about the fact of their existence? They are the happy-go-lucky types. Their smiles stand on mother earth’s piety. This but is a brave flower. It clung to survival, just staying a couple of inches of a fragile sapling high in the wall in the hot sweltering summer heat. It waited and waited with patience for more rains and when they came it added a couple of more inches to its height and there comes the flower. It’s basically about reaching home and fulfilling your destiny irrespective of the circumstances. What we get isn’t in our hands, but what we do with what we have is surely our calling. The smile of this flower is worth hundreds of lesser mortals in the garden below. It’s a proud flower, no wonder it’s there high in the air above the rest.

So dear friends, please avoid the mistake of cribbing about your circumstances of life. A lot many things definitely lie beyond our control. It’s better to accept certain facts. Take it as destiny. But that’s just half of the story. With what has been given to you by the quirks of fate, you are in the driving seat and juggle your pieces to make your own destiny. Like this little plant does. It blossoms a flower in the toughest of a situation and completes its journey, fulfils its meaning of being a flower. You too can blossom your flower with what you have been given. So forget about what you don’t have, just make use of what you have. You too are up for a flowery reward. Best wishes!           

The twilight lands after a hectic day. I am preparing cow-dung fire for my evening pooja ritual. A butterfly staggers nearby and swerves around on the ground. I think it is perhaps a butterfly that has forgotten it is a butterfly and takes itself to be a moth and now would love to burn itself to death. Thankfully that’s not the case. It sits quietly on the ground a few feet from the ambers. Its wings shut together in vertical, it looks a tiny sailboat in stormy waters. Possibly it feels cold and has come to enjoy a bit of warmth by the fire.

Half-baked services and lost smiles

 The three words in the name of oriental magpie robin do full justice to the beautiful, handsome, dashing black and white bird. It’s a flirtatious dandy and imitates many birdie voices when it’s just looking for fun. When it wants to convey its strength, it gives a chhrr-chhrr-chhrr heavy sawing sound. But its real beauty comes when it falls in love and gives sonorous, high-pitched notes of chew-chew-chew for a considerable time to woo some lady. His love call scores over rest of the birds among the trees around the house. Flings are very easy these days but love is something one has to strive for very diligently. Since the birds cannot just have casual flings like we humans, he has just one option of deep love and this means continuous love notes as the tired monsoonal clouds retreat in blue skies. If we leave humans apart, the rest of the species are into it full hearted, there being no half-hearted effort be it love, war, fun and playing or committing to parental duties.

The white wagtail is a small passerine bird that sways its longish tail with attentive rhythm as it picks up ants and little insects on the ground. It’s a beautiful sight to watch the birds walking. There is a captivating grace behind their little steps. The white wagtail looks an elegant well-bred lady as she walks on the ground picking up her breakfast.

The Indian rockchat also loves snapping out insects from the ground. Its looks are very modest with its pale coffee unichrome. Its fur misses some distinctive patterns or designs. It’s a plain looking bird but it makes up for all this by being very talkative. Listen to its pre-dawn gossip session. They have plenty of things to gossip about before setting out to pick up breakfast.

The oriental magpie robin is busy with his love notes. The Indian robin and the white wagtail are walking with ease to pick up ants. The wire tailed swallows are darting in the air picking up airy food in the form of fleas, dragonflies and mosquitoes. A solitary pair of parrots goes flying. There aren’t many seen these days. A few bee-eaters are diving and turning expertly to complete their breakfast before the late morning turns to full noon. The sun is bright and the noon hot so they prefer rest during the hotter part of the day.

Huge cloudy wagons float lazily in the sky. They don’t seem to have any purpose anymore and loiter around, almost directionless, here and there. A room with a window with some natural view is special by default. The upper room window opens to more trees than housetops. I just have to look out and the banana leaves greet happily. Inspired by this greeting and the busy birdie world with a song on its lips, I try to give my best to what attracts me the most. Not too much guess for this, it’s reading and writing.

Try to give your best even in the worst of a job. Even with very little success so far I take my writing very seriously. There is a scope for perfection in every nook corner for all ranging from the fortune 500 CEOs to the bathroom cleaners. I have seen beaming bricklayers, stonemasons and sweepers and cribbing, frowning CEOs in the costliest cars. What is the use of hitting too big and lose your smile. Hit only that much high as would not rob you of your smile.

My smile is encouraged by the languorous hand-waving by the banana leaves as I look over the tree tops from the terrace window. One sip of the view outside and one of the book in my hand. My smile tells me that life is really good. Then I read something and I turn serious. This is no smiling matter. I read that scientists are trying to revive the Siberian woolly mammoth that became extinct around 10000 years ago. From the skeletal remains sufficient remains has been retrieved to clone an embryo. This is disturbing. Why dig up the past to this extent. I think the best thing is to use genetic engineering to extricate the genes responsible for anger, hate and greed from the Homo sapiens. That would make our earth livable, not reviving the woolly mammoth. In any case, the Siberian snows will vanish in a few decades so where will the big animal stay. Probably they will have to repeatedly shave its wool to help it feel a bit less hot.

All these musings backgrounded by the birdie songs scamper back into a corner. If you have a huge tractor bellowing its powerful engine at the best of its capacity and still louder music blaring out of the big speakers there is no need to go near a fighter jet to test the capacity of eardrums. The young farmer is bursting with his ebullient hormones. The bellicose tractor and rowdy music are a tool of his adolescent revolt. And the revolts have their victims. The monkeys run away. They don’t stand any match here. The birds fly to safer trees. I cannot hop over the roofs like the monkeys, nor I can fly away like the birds. I use the faculty of discretion to fall in love with this portable discotheque now pounding the air in the neighborhood. So I assume that I like this music and engine noise and sway my head to the tunes. The Haryanvi desi songs are a war cry even at their gentlest best. But the raunchy ones would suitably provide a fitting background music to the real third world war if it happens. Combine it with the massive heaving guffaws of a big tractor and it turns something unbelievable or unheardable. Even at your loving best you cannot afford to like it the least. As I shake my head to the war-music, the initial symptoms of headache surface. I give up. It’s better to hate it outrightly. Never commit the mistake of complaining because in that case he will teach you a lesson for your intolerance to his youthful spirit and continue with the music and tractor noise with even more volume and till the time he feels pacified that you have been punished sufficiently.

The bird of peace has been shot down and I have to think of doing something else to keep my smile. I am mellowed down completely and surrender the spirit of protest for my legal right also in its wake. Which legal right? Ok, telling this now.

An hour ago I received a call from the courier operator from the nearby town. I have been waiting for an important communication.

‘Bhai sahab your letter is lying with us. Come and pick it up from our office!’ he straightaway commands.

‘But we have paid for its delivery to my door. Won’t it be nice if I get service for my money,’ I sheepishly protest.

‘We never deliver to the villages. You have to pick it up from us otherwise I will return it by 4 in the evening!’ he is even louder and iron-willed.  

‘Kindly tell me, if you don’t deliver to the villages why was the booking allowed in the first place?’

‘That I don’t know. That guy who booked your parcel made his money. Now as per company policy I can only deliver it within the town. So I will return it. You don’t worry.’

‘Your company name is DtDC. Door to Door courier. And please listen my door is at least 15 Km away from your office. What kind of service is this? I am recording your conversation and forward the issue to the courier company.’

He is very pleased to hear this as if I will do him honors. ‘Please do it. As a franchise I am only following the company policy. If you complain, the booking guy in the other city will be questioned, not me. So please complain.’

I had decided to escalate the issue and force them to deliver the service to my doorstep. But the tractor-cum-discotheque stabs my enthusiasm and I decide to leave the scene and make the most of the time by travelling to the town and pick my important document. So there I go riding my two-wheeler. It’s a swashbuckling new road, a national highway that sucks speed out of even the most lethargic vehicles. Cars, buses and heavy trucks zoom past with hair-raising speed. There are so many accidents and many people die but progress and development swiftly jumps over such minor road-bumps. This road was a small, peaceful district road during our childhood. There were massive century-old trees on both sides and we recognized distances through huge banyans, peepals, sheesham, mulberries, acacia and eucalypts. Then it was converted into a state highway to be finally changed into a brutally asphalted national highway. The trees vanished. The entire countryside looks changed without those trees. I ride sullenly trying to spot any tree that I can recognize. Not a single old tree is left. Construction is still going own. The air is foul and plumes of dust hit the helmet screen like tracer bullets. Throughout my life I have seen roads getting built, one after another and still we are short of roads. I think finally all that will be left is roads and we will stay on the roads always on the move. I am further beaten in spirits by the time I reach the courier office. It’s a tiny establishment, a single room. An old Tauji is cooling his paunch under a water cooler. I introduce myself. He remembers the phone conversation and seems offended for having raised my voice for my right.

‘People are very lazy these days. They cannot move even on vehicles. During our days we used to walk this kind of distance on foot without cribbing,’ he chastises me.

‘To me, not delivering a service for which you have been paid is cheating,’ I retort.

‘If you want to fight for your right then allow me to send it back,’ he seems very confident of his case.

I mull over it and think it wise to take the parcel. I sign and pick up my article as he looks hostilely.

‘And for your information, the courier name is Desk to Desk not Door to Door,’ he chides me.

‘But uncle my desk is in my house, not here,’ I try a counter punch.

‘Ok, no problem. If you still think that way then let me return it,’ he lunges for the thing in my hand.

I literally run out to save it from his old crooked hands and forget my helmet at his counter. As I plod back like a defeated old soldier, I can sense that my loss is more than what appears on the surface. Then I realize that the helmet is missing. I sheepishly go there and ask for my helmet.

‘See, your fight for your rights would have cost you even your helmet,’ he chides again.

I rest my case and ride back sullenly, more for the loss of huge majestic trees than the half-baked service.

There is crowd by the side of the road. A drunkard has died. His body is put half on the road and half on the side.

‘Actually he died there at the end of that field. That field is mine. But we have brought him here to pass it as a death on the road so that his poor family gets some road death compensation,’ a simple farmer informs me.

I move on and recall two drunkard pals in my village. They died in contrasting temperatures. One was left by the drinking group under the open skies in the fields after he passed out. It was a frosty January night and he was found frozen to death next day. The other was left in similar circumstances in a field on a boiling hot June noon and was found baked to death late in the evening.

‘They should have used some sense like these farmers and put them on the road to get something for their families,’ I think and move even more sullenly.

As I reach the farmlands outside my village, I see Ranbir trying to maintain his steps by the road. He is drunk most of the time. People call him gunman. Well, he never had a gun in his hand. Actually, his right hand got crushed so severely in an accident—he was a good driver who drank less and drove more to earn a decent living—as to leave a crooked twisted mass that curves to the side of his stomach like a policeman holding his sten gun. People gave him the honorary title of a gunman. Now he drinks more and drives not at all. One has a special corner in one’s heart for the former classmates. He was my classmate from class 1 to metric at the village school. The soft corner for your classmates with whom you grew up is almost permanent. You smile when you meet. He laughs and I smile and then turn sad as we move on with him riding the pillion.

‘An elephant jumps on its heels to raise unnecessary dust; a lion jumps on its paws to hunt majestically,’ he is saying this loudly. I don’t have any clue to the origins of his exclamations. He repeats it many times till we reach the village. I help him get down at the place of his choice. He waves back with a smile as I look back. The vanishing trees, the undelivered service and the portable discotheques lose their meaning as I think about his wasted life.