A Time for Little Things

 

An absolutely bright sunny September morning, all fresh and breezy! The main advantage of having more than enough rains is that the sky is extra blue, being washed of our sins, i.e., pollutants. There is a silvery spray of scattered fluffy clouds floating merrily across the blue playground. The lush green leaves shine with a happy gloss under the sun. The insects and butterflies seem gone berserk with joy as they claim the best of the short time they have on earth. The birds are pretty vocal too about their agreement about the good weather elements for the day.

Potatoes in the kitchen of a bachelor staying alone have a particular advantage. They get enough time and space to enhance their status and sprout shoot and sapling in order to hurriedly change their status from the meek eatables to live plants. A potato is all inclusive in growth. It sprouts from all angles. It seems like it has the procreative urge all across its body. Isn’t it an expression of the instinct of expansion in the universe? There is enough moisture in the rain-lashed air, so the potatoes have decided to be plants and avoid the status of getting piteously frying in the boiling pan.

A potter’s wasp also carries certain advantages of occupying a bachelor, middle-aged writer’s house. It has more options to choose a location for its clay house. The scooty hasn’t been used for more than a fortnight. So the nice rubber on the handle grip grabs the wasp’s fancy. The grip has a clayey addition now. A house is in making at a furtive pace. The wasp is really busy, doesn’t get tired. It won’t lose focus and energy till the final brick is laid. I feel inspired by its diligence for the cause. Well, I decide not to be a spoilsport at the moment. But if I need the vehicle very urgently, the wasp will have to ungrip its hold on the scooty’s handle grip. If I find myself in too lenient a mood, I may decide to put the old bike rusting in the barn into order and let the wasp fulfil its tenancy. There is always choice and scope for kindness.

The peeping crow is still at its favourite pole. But then it’s a bright sunny day. It will have to pay with a lot of sweat for its fun. I hope it doesn’t starve itself to death in lieu of its inter-species addiction.

Saw an 8-10 inches long krait baby snake sneaking into the wildly unkempt yard. It sneaked in through the space under the lower grills of the iron gate. Despite my stomping of feet, it managed to occupy the property. I think we get more scared in dreams than in real life. I woke up with palpitations. It was a dream guys. But given the condition of my unkempt courtyard and the little garden, the reality of a snake crawling in is far bigger than the dream. Well, if it has really managed to come in, I don’t worry too much. The kittens are there. It’s an equal match in size and age, a kind of fair play. If they win, they learn successful hunting. If the snake wins, it learns the basics of stout defence. All this is same to Mother Nature. By the way, a krait couple seems to have managed a very successful hatching season. Two little ones have been found in a neighbour’s house. Including the one in my dream makes it three. The bigger one that we killed in the yard was probably either of the Ma or Pa snake. That’s better to avoid further proliferation of the species. Well, unless the remaining one doesn’t turn out too romantic and woos a partner soon. 

A farmer accosts me from the gate as I am suspiciously looking around the place where the dream-snake sneaked in.

‘I need to take your advice and opinion on a very important issue,’ he says.

I know he is the mini-celebrity of the village. Even if he has to buy a needle, he has to ask at least fifteen people on the issue. No problem in that, one should consult others. The only trouble is that he has never abided by anyone’s inputs, without exception. He will do his own stuff later. It rubs a lot of salt on the people’s wounded ego. Probably, he asks others only with as much intent as to rule out those points at least. The rule of rejection, I suppose. He basically asks people what not to do, but people won’t understand. I am also not much interested in his new problem, so I have to dodge him.

‘Just now a big black snake has sneaked into the flower bed. First of all, please come inside and help in removing this problem. Yours we can discuss later,’ I reply.

Of course, he leaves the scene without his one more ‘what-not-to-do’ thing.

Kalla is raven black with equally white teeth and eyes. His smile is infectious. He is thin and looks like an undernourished long-distance athlete. He smiles and greets as I brush my teeth standing in front of the yard gate. He moves with ease, not much concerned with life. He started as a truck helper to get promoted to be a full driver later. There is prohibition in Bihar and he found simple cargo provisions for his truck too boring. His truck would then carry cartons of wine into the forbidden state. A few sorties are very successful in such matters. So he had extra money to spend.

In great spirits, he joined a group of trampish happy-go-lucky group of youngsters going to Manali for drinking and carousel spree. During the bus ride, he got the moment of his life for which he can afford a contended smile till his last breath. His co-passenger on the seat was a backpacker from the far away fairy lands. She was as white was he was glossy black. She found Kalla too cute and innocent with his big white eyes and innocent, shy grin. The bumpy ride dozed her off into a sleep. The best travellers are those who make the most of what they get on the path. They don’t crib about the lack of facilities. She too was resourceful and to extend the comfort of her sleep, she slid down onto his lap and slept peacefully for hours.

Kalla felt so much obliged and honoured that he absorbed all the shocks of the bumpy ride but didn’t move an inch lest she got awake. Ogling at the angel, he just sat through the hours-long journey. As they say, all things come to an end. The journey got completed. He had even missed his tea snack as the bus stopped by a roadside eating point, his friends winking and urging him to eat something. He but flatly denied through vigorous roll of eyes—he couldn’t afford to shake even his head in denial, risking waking up the sleeping angel—and looked the other way.

At the destination, the tourist smiled at him, hugged in fact, shook his hand and moved away with perfect ease without even looking back once. What a detachment from worldly matters!

‘How can you move away like this, as if you don’t even know me, while every cell in my body is yours now!?’ Kalla was left wondering.

Well, that was the moment of his life, all of this possible because he had extra bucks from ferrying illicit liquor to Bihar. Then the moment of paying back for fun arrived, as it inevitably does. He was caught in Bihar and put into jail. Now, Bihar being too far, his farmer father said the crops are in urgent need of his presence here.

‘How can I go there and spend weeks to get him bailed out. Someone has told me that the food is nice in the jail there, so it shouldn’t be a big problem,’ he wasn’t too bothered about the situation.

So Kalla enjoyed the Bihar trip for a good six months. That was when his father had enough time; his duties in the fields allowed him some spare weeks to go visiting Bihar and bail out his son.

As I spit out the toothbrush foam, a farmer neighbour is spitting out the choicest expletives on his buffalo, o sorry on his wife. Most probably, she has had extra(marital) fun instead of breakfast this morning. The farmer is around 40 and she is in her early thirties.

Years back when he was freshly married, he almost came running to me as I glumly wandered about the village pond looking at the ducks.

‘What fun do you derive out of this boring duck watching? The real fun is in getting married. A wife is real fun!’ he gesticulated.

‘Good that your wife is very happy with you,’ I smiled.

‘She has every reason to be happy. I give her pleasure almost all the time!’ he turned reddish, probably recalling some memories.

‘Well, too much of everything isn’t recommended. Pleasure arrives with pain also,’ I cautioned.

He was disappointed a bit. ‘You are almost a Babaji, what do you even know about a Wife?’ he laughed. Both of us laughed in fact.

Years passed. He had two kids and his ability, urge or intent, or all of them together, greyed like the pace of his bull slackened while pulling the cart. But his wife had the same old expectations from her carter. This gap was easily fulfilled by the young and upcoming carters, who are on a look out for such gaps in matrimonies in the neighbourhood. The husband was of course wounded to begin with, so he thrashed his wife. But even an ox won’t increase its pace beyond a point after getting whiplashed. Acceptance is the biggest tool to lead a tolerable life. He spared his hands extra effort in whiplashing his wife after beating the bull and started giving extra effort to his tongue through abuses. Well, that was pretty ok with the wife as well. So here he was doing the same after her latest round of extra(marital) fun.

The big rascal alpha male monkey carries the best pink colour in the world on its bum. It comes walking over the yard fence followed by three females, all of them carrying little ones on their backs. The rascal has been very busy in adding to his progenies like Chengez Khan did centuries ago. It goes with uncaring majesty. It has seen the toothbrush in my hand and knows that it’s no match for its fangs, which it bares as a warning not to mess up with his harem as it trains over the wall. Arrogantly it shakes a few branches of the tree as a further warning. Bare-handed, or even with a toothbrush, it’s too much for a human.

It remembers our last encounter. I had disturbed the train of his harem on the terrace. The ladies screeched away in horror. He was very much offended as the king of panicked queens. I had a very thin six-foot long bamboo stick. A flimsy weapon, I tell you. Its ends were split and I doubt whether even the kitten will mind it too much if I strike it with full force. Thank God, the monkey can’t see through the chink in the armour. To him, it is a lethal weapon and he gauzes its lethality by the striking distance, not the quality of its strike.

It bared its fangs and mocked attacks from a distance of eight feet, pacifying its vanity that I am not fully afraid of you. I had to add to my weaponry by picking a full brick and threaten a strike with full force. Now that too was a mock attempt, just like a monkey feigns fierceness. Who will throw a big brick with full force on one’s terrace? It will surely miss the monkey and will do more harm to the roof without even ruffling a single hair on the rascal. Again, good that they can’t see through these things and take things just literally on the face value. We have some extra things that we take in spirit. Well, we just have bigger brains, nothing else.

It remained at the front till it saw that the mamas of his children are safely on a neighbour’s roof and are gleefully looking at the interesting fight from a safe distance. He then showed me his shameless pink bum, looking back once more as if to say ‘I will see you some other day’ and ran away.

The next day, I found the terrace messier than before. I have a doubt that he indeed remembered the fight and performed certain extra criminalities on the way back in the evening. They keep the same route by the way; come whatever I may do to divert the trail route.

Forgot to tell you, the sturdiest of the street dog was heard howling in pain one afternoon. People ran to find out the big rascal holding the panicked dog by ears and slapping it profusely. Since the dog is a favourite of many drunkard farmers, the monkey king has many more enemies now. During their customary brawls in the evenings, when they routinely get sloshed up and need an object to vent out their fury, they have now taken up the fat monkey as the common enemy. The maddest words still do the rounds in the streets but they are less offensive because they are targeted at the monkey.

‘We will keep it chained and make him drink only liquor till he turns well-behaved like us,’ one of them gave the expert opinion, which was agreed only to the extent that of course the monkey would be sloshed first but later on would be thrashed for all the sins till it learns to hold human feet and plead for mercy.

It’s impossible to find a well-behaved monkey. They form the foundation of all the misbehaviours that we are engaged in as humans, destroying planet, disturbing the laws of nature. What they do on a small scale in a yard, we do at the bigger scale all over the planet. There is no qualitative difference but for some quantitative disparity. That’s why the rhesus monkey loves staying among humans. Out in forests, it gets bored to death.

They pry open the lids of rooftop water tanks and dive in and come out sleek and all brushed up to perfection. They get disgusted with any type of orderliness around. They have to put it into disorder as per the laws of entropy that says the cosmic disorderliness is ever on the increase. So they are the cosmic agents of entropy in fact. The trees have suffered. They just jump from rooftops into the canopies and commit as much damage as possible by flailing their limbs in all directions. Poor trees!

A few of them just love rope-walking, sorry wire-walking. Many a house go powerless at nights thanks to the extra wire-walking fun by the monkeys. Further, they cannot bear the ignominy of seeing a tree branch bearing the burden of a nest. They have to come to the trees’ aid at any cost and free the rent holding.

A few of them have too much of sex in their mind like humans do. They would just walk in all bonhomie on the parapet walls, all solemnly, for a break, and suddenly one idiot rides the haunches of the one in the front, irrespective of the gender of the carrier, and mocks licentious movements that can embarrass even the most shameless ones among the farmers.

I just hope that the kittens are spared from the monkey slaps. That would be too much for them. The other day, it was partially cloudy. They are becoming lazy and over-dependent on milk. Everybody gets spoilt by the free facilities. Who wants to stretch one’s limbs if there isn’t too much urgency for the same? They are no exception. They just wait and wait and wait for the bowl to get its contents. They have stopped going out into the bushes outside the yard to learn hunting. All through the day they just lie down comfortably and sleep. Well, to me a cat that doesn’t hunt is no cat. So I decide to teach them a lesson in attention and patience, the necessary requisites for hunting.

They keep on observing my every movement, waiting for that particular one that may fill the bowl in the corner. It’s very irritating, I tell you. This is plain greed and puts me off. Grumbling I fill the bowl but I put it in the open as a fine drizzle has just started. Driven by their greed, they run to lop up as much as possible. A cat abhors getting wet. She hates rains even more than the dogs. The misty drizzle turned to a rain and they had to run into the veranda, leaving the bowl still three quarter full. Definitely a torture to them. So the fear of getting wet is more than the love for milk. New observation. The skies are with me. The rain turns into a storm. It rains cats and dogs to make the cats learn the lesson in patience. So huddled in a corner they stared at the bowl without batting an eyelid. Concentration and patience are good for hunting. I am happy.

It keeps on raining for an hour. The bowl is full as a fruit of their patience. They have braved the storm, thunder and lightning and didn’t go hiding like earlier. They run out happily as the clouds take leave off the scene. Well, sometimes even patience doesn’t carry a sweet fruit as we expect. Their patience has earned a lot of water in the bowl. They lop up a few sips and move away making weird faces. I get my revenge for their insolence and laziness.   

A Mundane Morning in the Life of a Common Man

 

A common mormon, a black butterfly for the uninformed, lands on my bushy grey shack of hair. How do I know that it’s there? I see it in the landing pose coming straight from the front. It must have grossly overestimated my saintliness and sat a few ant-paces from the hairline. That is the most beautiful burden ever to carry! I hold myself perfectly still to prolong its stay. My neighbour proves that he still has nice eyesight.

‘Hey there is a butterfly on your head!’ he points out from the terrace.

I just smile in response. It must have been a tired butterfly stopping to take some rest. Soon it realizes that it’s no saint and takes to its colourful dives. I see it fluttering away and wish it the best of a morning.

There is a monkey on the parapet, very relaxed with its legs hanging down the wall. One hand is taken back and the palm spread on the wall top to support the relaxing posture. What about the other hand? Do you think a monkey has enough patience to keep its both hands relaxing? Never possible, I tell you! He is fondling his endowment. Scandalous! Now I know from where our ever-boiling lust comes from. It comes from the monkeys because we share 96% of our gene pool with them. Monkeys have sex in their mind as well, apart from their bodies, like we humans who have more of it in our mind and far less in the body. That’s disturbing a bit.

The kittens give a nice lopping exercise to their tongues as they get busy to lick out even the steel metal along with the milk. They find it shameful if some drops remain in the bowl. Then one of them moves away with majestic contentment. It arches up and then downs its back, stretching its paws, opening its jaws to the full. I think it’s a kind of digestive cat-yoga that helps them in bearing up with the ill-effects of overeating. The other one moves away sluggishly. Probably, in order to give a stiff competition to its sibling, it has overfed itself to the extent of finding cat-yoga impossible for the time being.

On the terrace of a house in the neighbourhood, there is a long bamboo pole fixed at a corner to serve as a pole for the cloth-line. A cloth-line doesn’t require this kind of length to sustain itself. The farmer must have used the whole of it, deciding against cutting it to lesser size, so that it can be used for some other purpose also, like thatch rafter or even breaking the rival’s head from a distance in drunken street brawls, which are in plenty by the way.

For the time being, a crow is using this extra length to its benefit. It spends most of its time on the top of the bamboo pole. I was wondering about the reasons for its taking this point as its favourite. I think I have found one. Right under the pole, there is an open-air bathroom in the corner.

The farmer has four adolescent daughters. They are full of life and giggle mischievously at anyone from the age of 10 to 60, or maybe even beyond because I haven’t seen the older ones getting the benefit so far, provided the objects of their giggle belong to the opposite sex. Well, that’s just being young. What’s wrong in that? I hope even the crow hasn’t been emboldened by their free-spirited grins and sits there, waiting patiently for the roofless bathroom to be occupied. Well, if that’s the case, I find it really objectionable. I have learnt to take their grins at me to be cuddly daughterly ones and from that relationship I feel like shooting the crow down with my sling-shot.

That isn’t possible by the way. The Chinese sling-shot let me down on the first instance of usage like Jinping dumped Modi’s Phafda affection. The sling-shot was hung on the wall like a Knight’s sword, unused since it arrived from China with much promise of performance. It came out of its scabbard for the purpose of turning a rascal monkey’s red bum still redder as it threw around things on the terrace for the sheer rascally fun of it. A full criminal, I tell you. Like Jim Corbet, monkey-hunting this time for a change, I aimed to the last limits of my eyes and hands. The instrument gave its best. The tension was gone both from the weapon and the holder. The pebble was safely in my hand. The rubber snapped. Chinese rubber, why the hell I even expected much of it? The criminal just walked away over the parapet fence, unpunished, and most importantly, with the same shameful redness on its bum. I couldn’t contribute to the colour. So I felt really disappointed.

Well, someone just asked, ‘Why don’t you tweet on Twitter?’ ‘I am not a sparrow, so I can’t tweet much. I am a frog rather, so I croak. Let them have a Croaker first then I will croak,’ I told him my real reason for not tweeting much.

Just now one of the kittens has crash-landed into the yard from the fence. It’s out of its wits and dashes straight into the barn to hide in the safest corner. A pack of babblers is after its life. Now it realizes that birds aren’t that delicate as its mother must have told. They aren’t just soft, juicy meat. They mean plenty of shameless expletives as well, as the pack of babblers proves now. They hang around in the barn for full five minutes, throwing choicest abuses and challenging the cowardly kitten to come out. It but won’t dare to come out. Never mess up with babblers little cat.

A New Day

 

The morning turns best by default when you wake up after eight hours of dreamless sleep. Even a semi-cloudy musty day appears as bright as it is on a full sunny morning. The flowers give you a better smile than you remember. Aren’t they the same flowers? But the eyes looking at their smiles are fresher today.

A butterfly, a common mormon to be precise, is resting on a sadabahar leaf. It’s a beautiful black butterfly with whitish spots running across the hindwings. Its wings are spread, not drawn taut together in an instinctive mode to fly away at the slightest danger. A resting butterfly with spread out wings is a great treat to the eyes. You get a chance to observe its colours and patterns more closely. While flying, it’s a teasing flirtatious speck of colours that titillates the heart but deprives the eyes of the beautiful patterns.

A small grass yellow eurema hecabe, drunk with youth, is all impatience and eagerness as it makes the most of its short life through airy dives and nectar sips. Probably, the resting common mormon is middle-aged like me and knows the importance of rest and repose after flying high.

The Indian silverbill, a cute little pale white bird, has redecorated the globular nest of the scaled munia, the previous occupier of the nest, and is happy with the proceedings so far. The monkeys have rarely allowed a successful hatching of these cute little birds so far. They are too restless for other’s peace. They just snatch away the nest. But all is well at least today and that’s more important. Tomorrow may have bright sunshine or a storm, that’s time’s problem.

A pair of angry tailorbirds darts in and sits on both sides of the refurbished silverbill house. They are angry over something and have a lot of complaints. They are too loud for their tiny size. The silverbill just trills feebly like the jingling anklet on the ankle of a little girl. Maybe it’s a bully pair of tailorbirds who are still angry because their well-hidden leafy nest was spotted by the monkey and torn away, throwing away the chicks. As I ran to turn its bum redder for the crime, I could see one chick in its hands. If it’s a rascal monkey, like they are without an exception, it will have its breakfast. If it’s a kind monkey—which is the most improbable thing on earth—it may raise the chick and create history like the wolves did in rearing Maugli, the jungle boy.

Well, the angry tailorbirds are too much for the meekly trilling silverbill. The bitter anguish and pain of losing one’s home and kids is understandable. Maybe they find the silverbill docile enough to vent out their anger.

This world is but full of bigger bullies. The tailorbirds’ pinching shrills attract a few babblers. There they arrive on the scene to settle the scores. Can anyone match a babbler’s boisterous anger? Not at all! They can give even the most querulous, cantankerous peasant woman in the neighbourhood a well-heeled run for her money.

The tailorbirds are outshouted immediately and they leave the field. The silverbill sneaks into its nest. The babblers sing the song of their victory for a few more moments, challenging any more mai-ka-lal to take panga with them before flying to arbitrate in some other quarrel among the lesser bullies on some other tree.

And thus picks up another fresh day on its slow march to speed up later to go slumberous again at the dusk.

Angels, Dark Angels and Demons

 

Time is the master ultimately. In the long term, lush green forests give way to barren deserts, mountains get broken, and mighty boulders become puny, round, kickable pebbles. Nobody and nothing can have a way against time. All we can do is to make the most of what has been given to us on the scale of time, like one takes a fistful of water from a swift running river. Splash a bit of it on your face, take a tiny sip to drink and sprinkle a bit to play like a child. That’s what we can do at the most.

Even the oceans will dry one day, that’s time playing football, scoring goals after goals. It plays the same trick with our life also, and most significantly does the same to our relationships. The once shining angels turn into dark angels, finally to become demons to be shunned altogether.

But we have some choices here. We can stall the rampant march of time over our lives. That’s what we can do with our consciousness. Finally, it will have its say, no doubt about that. But we can play our own interesting football with the fistful of time that we have in our grasp.

Time will of course play its tricks by putting horns on the heads of the smiling angels in our life. Things will surely change through shift in situations, circumstances, needs, goals, ambitions and many more. But we should try our level best to at least avoid the shining angels from turning into full-throttle demons in our lives. Let time do its tyranny, we can but stop the degradation of someone’s status in our life to become a demon. It can be any relationship. Let’s fight against time’s tyranny and stop a bit short of allowing someone become a full demon in our life.

Of course, the once shining angels cannot stay the same forever. Things change. Circumstantial winds are too fast to allow the wick glow steadily forever. It will shake in response to the weather elements. It is helpless in that regard. Change, as we know, is the only law. But we can avoid the time’s all-out tyranny in our lives. Allow the time only this much autocracy to turn your angels into dark angels, nothing lower. An angel is still an angel, and a dark angel is far better than a demon. The last one will give us stabbing pain with its sadistic glee. The former will give a mild, tolerable heartburn. 

The demons in our life are far more damaging to our own selves. A demon hardly cares about itself because it is a demon in our perception only. Within itself our demon may be somebody’s shining angel for the time being. So whose loss it’s in petting a demon in the mind?

If there is a demon in our life, it’s fed by our own anger, guilt, hate or jealousy. It will harvest more of these to fatten itself and pacify our ego through injured pride and bruised vanity. The equation of anger, hate, guilt and jealousy is beyond the factor of ‘whose fault is this’. All these are the same termites of the same species that eat into our physical and mental fabric.

Life is far better without demons in our lives. Life is a bed of roses with a few angels in our lives. It’s relatively worse with dark angels in our life because they feed on mild doses of anger, hate, guilt and jealousy born of our past with the angel-turned-dark angel. Life cannot be perfect. But it shouldn’t be messed up altogether. So retain your angels as long as you can and later on be kind and considerate enough to keep their status relegated to dark angels only. Don’t allow further degradation to make them demons because it comes at our own cost.

A Rainy September Day

 

The night was surely tired as the pre-dawn hour slowly approached. So were the crickets after a licentious night-long song and revelry. Their throats had given up and they had fallen silent. A couple of katydids, however, still carried on with their periodic bleep-bleep, breep-breep sound with so much regularity that it could be easily taken as the bleary beeps of medical instruments by a patient’s bed in an ICU. ‘Probably a new love-couple that isn’t still tired of each other’s song,’ I thought.

Then the night decided to extend its stay as dark clouds marched in, bounteously aided by the streams of swift winds. ‘We will help you in hijacking the day,’ they said with rumbling, lightning mischief. The day’s march was stopped at a sultry, wet, gloomy dawn. The sun seemed on a holiday on this Saturday.

The sky surely had rainy diarrhoea on this day, September 11 to be precise. It started raining at five in the morning and the day would remain stopped at its early morning grey till noon. The katydids lost their song, preferring to save their lives for the day and make love some other day, if they survived. A few rockchats, who like to gossip heartily while others are asleep in the pre-dawn darkness on normal days in the neem tree nearby, kept their tongues well in check and huddled among the branches.

We are no longer used to heavy rains. Monsoon has lost its sheen over the years in the north Indian plains. But climate has ruffled feathers, thanks to global warming, and we can expect drought or flood with equal probability anywhere in the world. So dear readers, it started raining cats and dogs. The clouds rumbled, lightning flashed and the wind blew. A kind of cyclonic, stormy rain it was.

It hummed and drummed among the tree canopies and gave muffled drumming sounds like a massive umbrella was under the watery onslaught. After half an hour, there was a brief pause that lasted for a couple of minutes. A tailorbird let out its accusative tittering, probably angry at the skies for spoiling its breakfasting hip-hops among the bushes. The clouds punched back with an angry growl and a full throttle cloud burst followed. Definitely the tiny bird must have peed out of fear.

It rained on and on till noontime. I even got worried about a watery deluge. It was just one watery fountain. The kittens ran in, scared to their wits, their tails and hair up. They must have thought someone was trying to kill them with watery hits from above. A cat simply hates getting wet. It has to give its tongue a lot of effort to make itself presentable again. The kittens ran in so speedily and went into hiding among the things put in the veranda that they would have beaten even a snake in its slithery sneaking into a hole. I hardly had any clue where they went.

You have to bow down to rain. It carries its unique majesty with easy pride. Our admance might turn it prejudiced and then we are up for it. The trees stand in mute servitude as long as it’s raining. A peacock did the same. It sat on the terrace wall and hid itself among the overhanging branches to avoid direct hits by the rainy catapults. It looked funny because it was shedding its plume. Only two long feathers were left apart from some shorter ones. There it sat for a sunny day and full plume when it would again be able to woo the ladies with the fantastic display of colours of its jingling tail-fan. And the rain went on drumming.

We are no longer used to big-time rains. Looking at the stormy roof drainpipes we become worried of some mishap. The houses leak, the snakes creep out of their flooded holes. Earthworms give the best of their sprints and move towards higher ground apprehending the mythical flood. I nearly killed one with my slipper, mistaking it for a baby snake because it was almost sprinting in panic. I had to give many a careful look to confirm its status because it had some serious urgency and purpose in movement. The mice and rats also jump from the sinking ship of their bushes and sneak in like the kittens do. The errant and foolishly gallant monkeys also get thoroughly bashed up by the rains. They look so funny when they sit all soaked up and have to settle for good behaviour and consideration for others.

Hundreds of baby frogs romp around the yard in gay abundance. They come hopping into the veranda like jubilant children after the school. There they hop around to go still farther from the rain, that’s into the rooms. A lot many manage to occupy the rooms in fact. They are almost domesticated frogs. You cannot afford to have an unkempt courtyard and its charm to yourself only. You have to share it with many of the gardening and wilderness ilk. I have to be careful not to step over baby frogs.

I remember this frog feller who had made a comfortable home in the kitchen. That was before the rains started, when there weren’t many frogs. It stayed indoors, hiding behind baskets. It would hop out and have a tea-time snack of flies while I had tea. It really considered the kitchen of its own. One day it was on an outing and found the door closed. It knew what it was up for. I found it hanging by the wire mesh of the door frame, peeping in with a surly look. I had to allow it in. After that it behaved well and got back well before the closing time. A nice frog it was. Then the rains arrived and it too came of age. A young frog has to woo its lady. It went out in all excitement and never returned. Probably a lot many of these baby frogs are fathered by him only. His children occupy the house now. 

A stray dog howled in the street. Probably its patience was wearing thin very rapidly. So it howled its imprecations. The rain meanwhile looked set to improve its all time statistics for the month of September in the region.

Around noontime, the sky thought we earthlings had enough of bathing, so it relented. The show of life that had been overtaken by the rain slowly crept out to take a look at the wet slippery stage. One kitten came out and I saw it going towards the flowerbed to relieve itself. It gladdened me that it behaved well and held the urge till the rain stopped and didn’t mess up the place it was hiding in. A monkey staggered out of the neem branches and sat on the balcony fence of a neighbouring house. It raised my spirits to see the foe so thoroughly soaked and well beaten. It will take an entire day for it to reclaim its foolish spirits, I reckoned. The birds arrived with their usual song, delayed though today. The peacock too shook its royal blue coat to expel the extra load. It looked surly and walked around the yard. The kittens looked at it with suspicion and fear from a distance. The peacock shed even the couple of last long plumes in its feathery gear to look less funny now because now it had a few shorter ones only. A peacock feather is a treasure. I ran to collect them and put them in my room for faith and aesthetics.

The peacock must have felt bored because it invented a play to divert its attention. It went in front of the black glossy rain-washed tiles—shiny enough to give a reflection of the onlooker—by the side of the inner gate and used it as a mirror. The Romeo started kissing at the strange she-peacock in the reflection. It must have been giving it a lot of pleasure, for it gave continuous rapping pecks at the lovely lady who reciprocated in equal measure. The requited dose of love and kisses uplifted the peacock’s spirits and it gave an effort and lifted itself to the garden fence, before launching itself onto a larger tree outside the boundary. A peacock is too big for its wings. It’s primarily for colours, not flying. 

In the afternoon, I went out into the garden to check out the rain-mauled plants and flowers. The plants were thoroughly beaten but already there were signs of resilience. The branches were getting their business back on track. They have no business to complain against the rain. They exist only because there is rain. A potted geranium is sloshed with water. Its vase is still full of water. I get down to help the plant and a serious attempt is made at my life. The fighter scouts of the stinging hornets tried their weaponry at my head. Thank god I had overgrown my hair to make it look like the unkempt yard. Had I been ganja they would have gathered their prey very easily. There was severe, angry buzzing. I now found that my head was almost touching their new-fangled nest even though I was stooping to tend the plant. The rains had brought down the branch bearing the nest. It needed to be removed. Either they fly or I stop walking in the yard because that was right in the middle of the way. I am selfish enough to retain my unrestricted rights to roam around my courtyard. Here I declare war on the stinging hornets. I drape myself in a big chador like a Muslim lady in a hijab and wear my bike helmet on top of it. Then I pick up a long bamboo and walk out like a brave Knight to the battle field. The battle is quickly over and I win handsomely. The branch is broken in one clean strike. The enemy citadel falls. They are also reasonably angry and attack my helmet. I chuckle like a wicked witch from behind the helmet screen. They get their teeth broken also in the attempt.

As I came in triumphantly, the kittens but found me as an apparition. There they went hurtling over the garden fence, one of them even falling and rolling for a good few yards in panic. Only at night they could dare to peep over the fence because the memory and aroma of the cow milk beats all fears. But even while drinking the milk they took pauses and straightened their ears to look around for the ghost that had entered the house.

The Journey with fewer Extras

 

In my forties now, I realize that it’s not that important to go all the way. It just burns you out. It overheats you and you go panting like a sick mule on a treacherous slope. All that matters is that we take steps. There never was a final destination, nor will ever be. We just hold the baton for some time. Journey well dear readers!

The main cause of discontentment and unhappiness is that we are too hard on ourselves most of the time. We have almost ‘something’ of everything in us, but we are always looking to change that into ‘everything’ of everything. I should have that car, I should have that man or woman, I should have that designation, I should possess that much in my bank account, I should become a bigger star, my children should be world beaters, and scores of all and sundry matters that define our life keep us away from enjoying what we already possess. The proclivity of forever looking too far into the future gives many stumbles in the present and rewards us with many welts and bruises.

If you can’t have happiness and joy with what you already possess, believe me running after the mirage is a futile exercise. I am not saying one shouldn’t be competitive. Just compete with a belief and gratitude that you already have many things, that life won’t be a mess and tragedy if you don’t reach the intended target. Run after your goals but always remember that you already possess many things that allow you to even think of going further. Stay in gratitude.

Why be tortured to be a perfectionist when you have your friendly sweet-sour amateur self goading you on the path of life? A joyful amateurish clown may turn out to be perfectionist one day. It’s very much within the grasp of normal laws, nothing miraculous about it. Be a happy joy-rider, not a grumpy one. The latter only creates nuisances on the pathway for others as well.

Why think in terms of the best cook masters in luxurious homes and super-luxurious hotels and thus never give it a try yourself? Bake your bread. It may come near the funniest map of the weirdest country or region in the world. Does the tongue discriminate among shapes as it turns the best and the worst in the same saliva-saturated mass? Make it eatable to a degree first. Set your own parameters of improvement. Eat your funny bread with gratitude. Give half of it to the dirty stray puppy, mauled by the bigger bullies in the street, lying coiled up near your gate. I do the same. It makes up for the lack of taste born of my amateurish effort. Boil your soup, make your sandwich, fry your eggs, and prepare your vegetables as per the capacity of your hands and cooking aesthetics. Hold this slim chance in your hand. One day you will cook to the satisfaction of many people around you if not the entire continents. Isn’t that success?

Eat your food in moderation. Don’t hold your money too tight; let it be a nicely floating part of the bigger economic river. Don’t go crazy about your designation and authority. Don’t overeat any of these. It gives indigestion of both stomach and mind. I tried gulping down an entire litre of pure cow milk in a few sittings in a day and got to know that I need just half of it. An extra visit to the loo mutteringly reminding me the difference between ‘need’ and ‘greed’. So the kittens that have occupied the unkempt yard are the beneficiaries of this realization. Their mother doesn’t visit them anymore. Grown up as they are. They are learning the art of life in the courtyard before jumping onto the larger stage of life. Till then I can play a bit of part-time role in getting them still bigger. Looking at them cutely gulping down the milk, their moustaches having milky dews, the milk in my stomach gets an extra digestive juice to give me more benefit.

I am learning the art of giving away the extras of life. It stops the stomach from bloating up as well as keeps my pride and vanity within tolerable limits. If we disburden ourselves of the unnecessary extras, believe me we will have a far more joyful journey than we expect and will go several extra miles.

The Liquor-lover’s Gift

 

Once a nicely sloshed farmer was seen lumbering zigzag in the muddy street. The mud on his clothes proved his difficulty in managing his vertical. Anyway, he approached nearer and I saw that he was holding a banana sapling in his hand. Whether he really meant to carry it on purpose or it just got into his hand after a fall, I’m not sure. In any case, he seemed to carry it on purpose as he would grab the article again while getting up from the latest fall. He must have loved bananas.

Face to face, I smiled and he laughed. I stood awestruck by the majesty of his gaiety and he gyrated with full spirits as if mocking at my colourless life. Then God knows why he turned abusive and gave a full display of the choicest expletives. Even my well-poised demeanour was shaken a bit, forcing me to give a mild rap at the back of his head. It coincided with his next fall. He would have fallen in any case even without my effort. But the timing of the mild rap and a hard fall matched to a class that made it look like the effect of my hit.

He thought he had been hit so hard that it dusted him in one go. He panicked. I saw the fear in his eyes as if I was a slayer of the drunkards. I got down to assure him that my proceedings in the matter stood ended. Then he cried. ‘You are so kind, you are almost a God to help me!’ he howled. I helped him stand to his feet—for the time being at least, as it was my duty to help him regain his vertical for at least once after contributing to the cause of his latest fall.

He would have again fallen if he hadn’t clutched me with full brotherly force. ‘You are my brother. You are for me while all of them abandoned me!’ he embraced me tight and sang a sluggish, frothy, smelly song of brotherhood in my ear. I tried to extricate myself from the claws of his drunken love but he won’t let go of the long-lost brother he had been looking for so long. I tried pushing him away but he was really hungry for human affection.

I had to push him, which I did to good effect and again he went down and cried once more for being stabbed in the back by someone whom he respected more than his real brother. I found it appropriate to take my presence off the scene. As I walked away, I felt his gift tucked into my shirt around the collar, a bit of it out grazing my nape. I pulled it out. The banana sapling! Maybe he was trying to crown me with it on my head and make me the King of all drunkards. However, he misplaced the item a bit.

I looked at the banana sapling. Despite the mistreatment and mauling, it seemed reasonably well in shape. The leaf would open up as the root was intact. Without thinking too much, I just allowed it to stay in my hands. So that’s how my dears the plant changed its master. I wonder if the banana spirit had a role in playing out this drama.

After changing the masters, the plant very well managed to get a new root-hold in a fresh yard. There it stood with its half-mauled single leaf. Drunk with the gay spirits of its erstwhile master, it blossomed up. From a kid to a boy to an adolescent to a dandy young man, it just sprinted towards claiming more of life and living. Its huge green leaves swayed to winds like majestic banners of the banana kingdom.

A couple of years after its arrival in my garden, the rains turned out to be very, very lenient. It just grew and grew through the rainy season. The lateral shoots from its roots grew forcefully to push out the bricks around. It wanted to become the king of bananas, I suppose. It was a big clump now and furled its leafy sails for a life well lived and enjoyed. It gave the unkempt courtyard a wilder look than it really was.

Well, then maybe a krait snake was also duped in taking it as a really wild place. It slithered in to stay in the clumpy banana encroachment. It had to be dispossessed of its free-hold with much fearful action. Then another little baby snake was also found.

A suspicious-looking neighbour gave his expert verdict that one day a cobra will also greet me. ‘Why do you have such an overgrown banana in your garden? It attracts snakes like a magnet pulls iron!’ he admonished.

‘Really!’ I nearly trembled and looked at the banana.

Snakes can surely put us out of our wits. My mother’s rusted wood-cutting scythe was brought out of retirement from a musty corner in the barn. I was expecting resistance from the resident reptilian tenants in the clump. My strikes were shaky. Thank God there weren’t any more snakes, or if there was any it must have gone out with its girlfriend to give her a kiss of venom. I decided to remove all the lateral encroachments and leave only the sleek central trunk to avoid the complete murder of a tree. I had to save my nature-loving aesthetics as well.

A banana is no woody mass. It’s a herbaceous plant, a mere layer after layer of the leafy fibre forming the trunk. The rusted scythe looked full of vengeance and easily cut through the soft juicy fibre like a knife does to the butter. Imagine, such a soft trunk would bear storms and high winds! It’s because nature hasn’t got sharp edges like us. It pushes and prods in a circular way that even a blade of grass would weather the mightiest storms.

The banana clump bore the sharp edges of my fear and insecurities and the bushy clump turned into a single sleek strand. It still smiled. Thank God, the trees aren’t vindictive like we humans, otherwise they would stop producing oxygen as we put them to axe. We survive because the rest of the creation is far more adjusting and tolerant than us.

These trees never miss their smiles. A gust of breeze ruffled the leafy banners. A big leafy overhang brushed my face and aired my perspiring face as if to say, ‘Why worry so much. You are all right and so am I!’ I think they forgive very easily. I took the consolation that a single strand of banana is better than no banana at all.

The Religion of a Common Man

 

Mere goodness in letter covers up for many a sin in spirit. Blind adherence to religion in letter allows one to commit many wrongs in spirit. Hypothetical lip service is very easily done. More importantly, it fetches very rich, luscious fruits.

The radicalization of religion is primarily driven from the ritualistic adhesion to customs and conventions on the surface, their meanings twisted to suit the ulterior motives. We have a painful history of Christian crusades to the modern day Islamic radicalization that have brought countless sufferings to our little planet.

The practitioners of the modern Hindutva have now taken a few clues from these aggressive defenders of faith and are imbibing some steely nerves in their Sanatan Dharma fabric. ‘If the Christians and the Muslims can slaughter thousands in the name of religion, we can at least create verbal rhetoric in stout defence of our religion,’ they seem to think. They rarely kill but then they have a pretty noisy sloganeering movement. It serves the purpose of all the political parties irrespective of who stands for whom.

All said and done, is it necessary to take inspiration from somebody’s wrong? Someone’s wrong can never stand as a justification to your own falling on the wrong turf. Why weigh your worth and value on the tainted, tempered scale of someone else? Only the yardstick of your own goodness will do justice to your real worth.      

Ramraj Pandit is a simple man at the pilgrimage town of Mathura. He feels very insecure on account of the belligerent Islam. The tales from the Middle East and Afghanistan—apart from the arch nemesis Pakistan—rile his conscience a lot. He speaks well in defence of his religion, contests for municipal councillor post and wins. He is genuinely concerned that radical Islam will slaughter meek Hindus if we don’t fight for our religion. Now the onus is on him to prove himself worth the salt of his faith.

The more the bloody tales of belligerent Islam trickle from outside, the more his nerves get on the edge. He is ready for the protection of his faith and values. He needs errant Muslims to substantiate his fears and justify the remedies of law.

Four people stay in his locality in the basement of a garage. Taslim is a ragman. Abdul is a bangle seller. Rashid is a vegetables hawker. Ali operates a dosa vendor cart. They are all migrant workers and barely pull their humble cart of survival and sustenance.

Taslim, the ragman, collects trash and scrap items and keeps them for sorting out in the corner of an empty plot of land behind the garage. A fencing of gunny sacks defines a few yards of his space for which he pays to the plot owner. The plot owner gets double benefit as the ragman works as a kind of watchman for his property also.

This morning he is collecting the disposables strewn around a wedding party site. His big garbage sack on his carrier rickshaw is bulging at its seams with scores of disposed items of festivity. Who won’t be happy to get a big lead in his line of business?

His pleasant reverie is broken as he gets pushed from behind. A loud abuse follows. ‘Chant Jai Shri Ram!’ Pandit says.

Then he carefully scans the contents in his cart. Blasphemy! An empty packet of incense among the trash. There is an image of Lord Ganesha on the packet!

‘You guys cut necks if someone merely says anything about Koran! And here you are putting our Gods in shitty trash!’ he roars.

There is a little crowd. Jostling, shoving, an altercation and the trash cart is toppled. Nothing serious happens. But the incident’s video will go viral by the evening. 

A forlorn looking, stick-wielding policeman arrives on the scene. Ramraj is inconsolable. He yells and shouts well, enough qualifications to be a successful politician. Deep imprecations follow.

The rag-picker is booked under IPC Section 153-A (promoting enmity between different groups on grounds of religion), 505 (2) (public mischief), 323 (voluntarily causing hurt). He has no clue to these imposing clauses. Most of the time, the heavy tomes of judicial clauses hardly have any clues to their own meaning. Everything is subject to interpretation. No wonder, the judicial process can stretch till eternity.

The nights in the lock-up are very busy. ‘You must be cooking fabulous mutton,’ a relaxed policeman asks. So the rag-picker gives his best in cooking mutton. Multiple skills are always welcome in this big, bad world. The cooking comes out amazing. A tongue can bite in verbal exchange but nature primarily means it to taste nice food. In this way, many tongues are happy and no longer bothered about the weightier issue of saving religions. They are contended with his service and treat him well. It goes for three days. On the fourth day, the Hindu plot owner gets him out on bail. He will adjust the money owed to him in little monthly instalments. The real sufferer I think is the Indian judiciary at having one more petty case that will sit on its breast, suffocating it under its weight along with the millions of other ongoing cases.  

But it seems that the local councillor is on a spree.  

Very soon the affable and friendly Abdul is booked for inappropriately touching a teenage girl. The girl says a firm ‘no’ and insists that she didn’t feel anything of that sort as he tried to fix a bangle around her wrist. ‘You are too young to feel these predatory ways, we know better,’ they tell her. So there are many who say they can feel it and know it for sure.

The social media is the hub for the newly emergent tiny celebrities. Again the video goes viral in the city. The bangle seller is arrested. His five days in the lock-up prove that he indeed has very deft and caring hands. He works, cooks, brooms and massages calves, thus putting all the menial staff at rest. The Hindu bania who supplies bangles to him is worried. The hawker owes him some money, so he pays for the bail, carefully adding the bail charges to the previous amount. When Abdul walks out, it causes a lot of inconvenience to the police station. He proves himself almost indispensable. But they cannot keep him anymore even if they like him on account of his great utility.

It’s easy to come out of difficulties if you retain your smile and do all you can do without reacting. Give your best with a pleasant mood and there you are. You step out of the troubles one fine day.  

Very soon Rashid’s vegetable cart also gets into the eddies of the storm in the tea cup. He is very mildly beaten, but shouted at terribly, by a vigilante group, of course led by the effervescent local councillor, for failing to produce his adhar card. They allege that he is using fake identity to pass off as a Hindu hawker. The case doesn’t go too far as a gentleman helps the poor vegetable seller in getting cleared off the scene without further complications.

Ali’s dosa cart is vandalized now. The crime is naming his stall after a Hindu deity. The board that reads ‘Ganpati Dosa Corner’ is torn apart. The mere fact is that he has purchased the cart from its previous Hindu owner without taking care to change the name. Of course, its video is uploaded on the Facebook and many ‘likes’ follow. Ramraj is very vocal in accusing Ali of waging ‘economic jihad’ by depriving Hindus of job opportunities. They then move onto chanting slogans to ‘purify Mathura’.

On his complaint, the police registers a case under IPC section 427 (mischief causing damage) and some section about hurting religious sentiments. Ali can count his stars lucky for having worked as a masseur in a saloon at one time in life. His palms and fingers ensure that his few days in the jail turn out to be full of action for his hands. Everyone at the police station is more relaxed after a nice massage. Other inmates also get better treatment as the policemen carry much soothed nerves.

Ali’s three friends bail him out. Then they hold a meeting at their place. It’s a serious issue. Either leave the place or try not to fray the nerves of the ebullient, pudgy councillor who is aiming to get an MLA ticket, encouraged by the little storms his videos have raised on the local social media.

They understand the reality better than any hardcore mullah baying for kafir blood far away in a masjid. A common man’s life, irrespective of religion, is sustained by compromise, acceptance and adaptation. These are the religionless credentials necessary for the survival of the underprivileged of any caste, class, creed or religion. A reaction born of religious rhetoric from their side would mean leaving the place and start an innings somewhere else. That would amount to making life further burdensome. They choose prudence. They decide to greet their customers with ‘Jai Shri Ram’. It’s a masterstroke of marketing by the common men just like it’s a masterstroke of political rhetoric by the power-aspirant politicians. Using it the former can see through a normal day and the latter can go to assemblies.  

They do so. After a few days of this greeting, they don’t feel lesser Muslims. The initial apprehensions are allayed. Now even strangers smile at them. Surprisingly, with more open heart they feel more focussed in their prayers and nearer to Allah than before. Malleable hearts are very near to all Gods in all religions. 

Well, an imperilled Hindu, caught in similar circumstances, is also advised to greet his Muslim customers with ‘Allahoo Akbar’. Does hailing a flower in different languages insult the flower? We have different words for almost everything in different languages. So why don’t we understand that different religions use different words to connote the same entity.

A brainwashed mullah gives a blood-curdling yell against kafirs in a masjid. At the centre of the little storm, primarily his own influence grows, a few blindfolded souls get tricked, some killing or violence happens. Like a pebble is thrown into the pond and ripples move out. The littlest ripples at the centre turn broad at the outer margins and cover large spans of water. They touch the lives of the common man. Tiny undulations, softly shoving ahead. They just tug at the sleeves. It would be a folly to give them more consideration than what they are—mere tiny ruffles, often very silly. It’s advisable to treat them as something that just moves on, almost inconsequentially. Take them more seriously and they create storms in the minds. 

Poverty and deprivation are enough complications for the common man. Why make it further complicated by picking needles in hayracks. We, the commoners, are meant for raking and unraking big loads of hay, the actual movers of load on the broad stage of labour, sweat and grime. Let’s not stoop down too much into further nitty-gritty and stare around our feet for the invisible gems in the dust. If we do it then we get a kick on our ass by those who preach us to look into the dust for the smallest needle. As we do so, we get a hit and they gather their rewards.      

The Formula to become an Officer

 

He was born with the birth of the nation. So his farmer father, at a small village, had enough reason to spend the little money he had saved. That day, nearly a maund of choorma, the farmers’ delicacy made of chapattis meshed with ghee and jaggery, slithered down the digestive tracts of many a burping farmer. During those bucolic old days, the blessings for the host were directly proportional to the gastronomical pacification of the guests. So the newborn was showered with a torrent of blessings, the majority of which bordered on ‘become strong like Bhola—the sturdiest bull in the village—and also become a sahib, an officer.’

The proud father took the blessings very seriously. He kept it fresh by repeating it to the infant as and when he occasioned to hold the baby. ‘You have to become an officer,’ he would say. As the boy grew up, he was well aware of the fact that while the rest of the boys in the village could grow up to be simple farmers he had to be an officer.

He indeed turned out to be an officer long way down the decades. The old farmer didn’t survive to see his son becoming an officer though. The father passed away while the son was still pursuing his B.Ed. degree after completing bachelors in science. But by this time the old farmer had ingrained certain things that would keep his son steadily yoked in the mission. The burly son kept furrowing the plough to be an officer in the education department, first as a teacher to headmaster to district education officer to finally retire as deputy director in state education board. An officer indeed.

He himself is an aged father now and points out the four life-changing episodes whiplashed by his father on his young psyche. ‘Four things made me what I am today!’ he declares by holding out four of his thick hairy fingers and keeping the thumb out of the league by jutting it against the palm.

I think his father should have given him five principles to make it a wholesome and more emphatic hand spread. Anyway, we have to do with four only.

Number 1:

‘During those days in the village school we had to spread out our hand like we are taking an oath and declare before the entire class that I can no  longer hold my waters and hence need to go to the bathroom at the far corner of the vast playground. Apprehending public shame, I asked the teacher’s permission. He was busy in twisting the ears of the biggest tramp in the class, hence in a bad mood. He said ‘go’ without looking at me, being still busy with the naughtiest boy’s ears pretty spiritedly. Immediately I made a dash for the door. But then he harked back on second reflection. “Did you eat your father’s bull-feed today to be under such urgency to run to the corner?” his anger spilled over to me. He beckoned me to him. I approached with fear and he gave me a heavy slap that was too big for my face. I fell down and apprehending more to follow, I took to my heels and bawling with rage and fear I ran back home. There I told the episode in the spiciest terms, portraying the teacher as the biggest villain and me as the most innocent kid on earth. Father seemed moved by the tale. I was very pleased within, thinking that now the teacher was for a lesson because my father was a big man. Father politely took me back to the school. Then he suddenly changed colours. “Master ji your student had run away, I bring him back,” saying this he treated my other cheek with such impunity that the teacher’s strike felt a soft cuddle in comparison. “Never ever complain against your teacher and commit the sin of running away from school under any circumstances,” her thundered episodically. I had my lesson. The teacher is always right and holds tremendous might. Later, I expected the same from my students and printed the same lesson on their cheeks. As a result, many of my students turned out to be officers themselves.’     

Number 2:

‘I was in the eighth standard when he got me admitted to a school at the district town about 10 kilometres from the village. The village school looked all freedom in comparison to the town school. So sulking and sad I was one day fleeced by a naughty group to scale over the hostel wall and watch a movie at the only cinema hall at the town. It was a dream-like experience. It was a Dilip Kumar film. My boyish senses were so jolted that I saw the moving pictures around for a fortnight. The entire world looked a motion picture. I reached the climax scene of this real-life film when I came back to the village on the weekend after a fortnight. There he stood like the bulkiest villain in the movie and looked very stern as I entered. As I put down my bag, he followed my every step and then calmly asked me to fetch the bull-whip lying in the corner. I thought the bulls must have played truant while ploughing, hence required some remedial action. With a jump in my step I got the weapon and handed it over to him. He handled it with a deep reflection and said, “Son, films are a dream and studies mean real life!” Then he competed with his treatment of errant bulls while making me realise the hard fact that there is hardly any connection between films and real life. I think I underestimated his spying capabilities, thinking he was always walking behind the bulls, tilling the land. He must have deputed someone to keep a watch on my activities. Well, I felt bad at that time but now I understand how good it was to me. During my headmaster days I myself went into the theatres and searched for the vagabond filmi students with a torch and saved many careers with kicks and slaps there within the cinema halls only. In fact a few of those officers visited me later and acknowledged my kicking help inside the cinema halls to rectify the error. The lesson is: be a protagonist in real life instead of just a spectator of reel life. My dedication to real-life picture has enabled me to create many officers, the real heroes, not the made-up fake ones.’

Number 3:

‘As a consequence of the filmi misadventure, I was taken out of the hostel and asked to commute daily to the school from the village. During those days, public transport was almost zero, just two or three buses to and from the town and those were crammed like fodder husk in a barn. He surprised the entire village in pulling out the last farthing from his purse inside a clay pot buried somewhere in the house, barn, dung heap or God knows even cremation yard. The brave act resulted in a brand new Atlas cycle for me. It instantly raised my status to the clouds. Going to the school on your own bicycle made you a prince. I felt princely. And princes don’t give too much of trouble to their legs. There was this tractor that plied between two wood markets at almost fixed hours daily. I would stop and wait for it about a kilometre from the village and take the help of the tractor trolley to make a motorbike of my bicycle. I would hold some log with one hand at the end of the laden wagon and allow myself to be pulled smoothly. It was extreme fun. It became a routine both ways as I managed my timings more smartly than I managed maths problems. But I should have remembered that it was not the era of motorbikes. One day, as the mammoth lurching bus raised dust and overtook the prince on his motorbike, two eyes really-really appreciated the commendable feat. If I was the prince, my father was the king. So the king saw his son’s feat from the window of the rickety bus. I had indeed misused the privilege. Quite naturally he had the authority to impound the misused property. He punctured its tyres and said, “It stays airless till you learn to use a bicycle as it’s meant to be.” He spared the air in me this time, keeping himself to putting out the air of the tyres only. In any case it was a big punishment, the fall in grace from a prince on a motorbike to a sweaty nonentity crammed in the cursed bus for which one had to wait till eternity and that too for the tiniest of foothold. The lesson here is: never misuse your bicycle by treating it as motorbike. I myself used the principle to great effect in making officers later on. I convinced many foolish parents who gave motorbikes to their boys coming to the senior school. I got them demoted to bicycles, telling them it will add muscles to their thighs at least. A motorbike just gives you wings to fly wrongly. And those who had bicycles, I got them cut down to their real size by getting them taken away so that they walked to their destiny. One boy, whose bicycle I arranged to be taken away from him, daily walked from his village five kilometres away. As there was no public transport on the dirt road from his village, he had to walk. As he walked, he got late usually. So I used my palm on his back very effectively during the morning prayers publicly. He thus ran to be on time and save his back. His stamina increased to an extent that he was soon playing nationals. He also became an officer on sports quota. There are sure-shot definite ways of producing officers.”

Number 4:

‘After completing my B.Sc., I opted for pursuing B.Ed. at the district city 40 kilometres away. There was no option of bicycle, motorbike or daily commuting in the rickety bus service that plied twice daily. So my father arranged a modest room near the university and giving me a long list of primarily not-to-dos left me alone with plenty of apprehensions in his mind. “Without plenty of milk you won’t be able to become an officer. Almonds and milk are the foundations of an officer’s mind,” he said. So he left plenty of almonds under my bunk. For milk, he arranged with a milkman in the bazaar. “Brother, swear that you will feed him as good milk as to your own son. I will come every month-end to clear the account,” saying this he left for the village. Those were rainy days. The milkman didn’t seem to keep his promise. I found a tiny baby frog swimming in my three litres that he supplied in the morning. He must have found mixing the tap water with milk to be too expensive, so he went for pond water most probably. Other issue was about accounts. He said I owed him far more than what I had calculated as per my mathematical skills. When Father came, he listened patiently to both sides. I tried to stand my ground to pay less. “No son, this we have to pay. In future, you either manage it in a way to keep both parties satisfied or stop taking milk from him. All this depends on you,” he gave his verdict. “But what about pond water in the milk?” I tried to turn the scales in my favour. “Are you sure it’s only pond water, son?” he asked me. I said yes. “I’m happy that you didn’t mix gutter water because there were no worms in it,” he patted the milkman on the shoulder. The milkman was visibly ashamed and lowered his eyes. With his slow, steady and cautious steps, Father walked away to get back to the village. There was a marked improvement in the milk quality after that. I think he wanted to tell me that you have to help others to keep your trust in them. It helped me a lot in becoming an officer later on. Despite all the bullshit sprayed by rascally seniors, I kept on giving them more chances to retain my trust in them and I had hassle free rise in the ranks. Using the same principle, I managed many criminal-minded students in a way that they at least didn’t go to jails as convicts and became petty employees, if not officers.’

Well, the farmer died while his son was a mere teacher. The demise was unexpected and sudden, given his sturdy constitution. But then one can’t help it. His last words to his son were: ‘Son, come whatever may, you have to become an officer one day.’ He became one later on. These four anecdotes carrying four formulas, he says, are the building blocks of his becoming an officer.