सत्यप्रकाश

 मणिपुर के बारे में मैं और आप जैसे साधारण लोग ही लिख और पढ़ सकते हैं. आराम से पॉकेट गरम कर चुकी गोदी मीडिया को तो एक नया पाकिस्तानी स्टार मिल गया है. खैर हम तो बात कर सकते ही हैं. कम से कम अभी तक. आगे का पता नहीं.

77 दिनों की बेशर्म निष्क्रियता के बाद, पहली गिरफ्तारी हुई है और वह भी तब जब पूरे देश ने मणिपुर के भयानक वीडियो के मद्देनजर उनके चेहरे पर थूक दिया। यदि यह अमानवीय, क्रूर, शैतानी वीडियो वायरल न होता तो राज्य और केंद्र सरकार अभी भी यथास्थिति बनाए रखती। आदरणीय सर्वोच्च न्यायालय को चेतावनी देनी पड़ी और तब हमारे विश्व स्तर के आदरणीय, माननीय प्रधानमंत्री जी ने अपनी चुप्पी तोड़ी। और निंदा की कुछ पंक्तियाँ कही। लेकिन क्या अब इससे कोई फर्क पड़ता है? क्रूरताएं काले हृदय से खुलकर निभाई गई हैं. Hvaniyat पिछले तीन महीने से खुले में नंगा नाच कर रही है। और ऐसी सैकड़ों घटनाएं हुई हैं, जैसा कि राज्य के सीएम ने खुद स्वीकार किया है. मणिपुर में होने वाली घटनाएं अमूर्त, भीड़-जनित विस्फोट नहीं हैं। उनकी जड़ें हैं. जाति, वर्ग, धर्म और जातीयताओं पर समाज के व्यवस्थित, संगठित विभाजन की जड़ें। और भारतीय राजनीतिक परिदृश्य में इस तरह के विभाजन को कौन बढ़ावा देता है और कौन इसे पोषित करता है, यह कोई रहस्य नहीं है। यह उतना ही स्पष्ट है जैसे हमारे ऊपर सूर्य है। धार्मिक स्थलों को जला दिया गया है. जलाए गए चर्चों और मंदिरों का डेटा लीजिए. आप देखेंगे कि उनमें से अधिकतर चर्च हैं, Kuki समाज के धार्मिक स्थान जो अधिकतर ईसाई हैं। क्या यह पता लगाना एक अघुलनशील गणितीय समीकरण है कि वीडियो में दिखाए गए मध्ययुगीन बर्बर कृत्यों के बावजूद  मणिपुर में अभी भी राज्य सरकार क्यों चल रही है? यदि अधिक मंदिर जलाए गए होते और प्रताड़ित लड़कियाँ ईसाई कुकियों के बजाय हिंदू होतीं, तो कानून की तलवार से बहुत पहले ही न्याय मिल गया होता। न्याय के लिए कुछ कदम उठाने के लिए 77 दिन और सार्वजनिक आक्रोश और माननीय सुप्रीम कोर्ट की चेतावनी नहीं लगती। सीधी सी बात यह है कि मणिपुर को जानबूझकर जलने के लिए छोड़ दिया गया है ताकि 'उन्हें' सबक सिखाया जा सके। तथाकथित राष्ट्रवादियों के लिए हर कोई देशद्रोही है. 'वे' जो उनके दिमाग को खराब करने वाली बयानबाजी का भक्त नहीं बनते है। ये शर्मनाक और घृणित है. यह कोई तत्काल भड़कने वाली घटना नहीं है. इसका गर्भाधान काल होता है। हमेशा खुजली करने वाली खाकी निक्करों ने प्लेग की तरह चर्चों का तिरस्कार किया है। वे उस हिस्से में नफरत के बीज बो रहे हैं और अब यह फूट कर सामने आ गया है। क्या यही वह विश्व गुरु है जो वे भारत को बनाना चाहते हैं?

नौटंकियों की गाथा

 भारतीय मीडिया गुणवत्ता के मामले में अपने निचले स्तर पर पहुंच गया है। यह एक कथात्मक धारावाहिक है। पूरा भारतीय मीडिया जासूसी एंगल से जुड़ी एक सीमा पार प्रेम कहानी निर्देशित कर रहा है। तो सीमा हैदर ने हमारे पत्रकारों की पसंद को हाईजैक कर लिया है जो जासूसी तत्वों वाली रोमांटिक रीलों को निर्देशित करने के लिए बेताब दिखते हैं। समाचार चैनल देखें और आप महंगी रॉम-कॉम फिल्में और तीसरे दर्जे के सोप ओपेरा मिस नहीं करेंगे। और भारत माता का एक अंग पिछले तीन महीने से जल रहा है. भारतीय समाचार चैनल यूक्रेन युद्ध को अधिक बाइट देते हैं और मणिपुर का उल्लेख छोटी-सी साइड स्टोरी के रूप में किया जाता है। और माननीय प्रधान मंत्री, जिनके पास वैश्विक मुद्दों पर बोलने के लिए सभी शब्द हैं, अब मणिपुर के बारे में कुछ पंक्तियाँ लंबे, लंबे, लंबे अन्तराल के बाद बोलते हैं। मणिपुर विभाजनकारी और ध्रुवीकरण की राजनीति से पैदा हुई उसी पुरानी आग में जल रहा है। सरकार विपक्षी नेताओं के आर्थिक अपराधों को धोकर उन्हें अपने खेमे में शामिल कर शुद्ध राष्ट्रवादी बनाने में जुटी है। अंदरुनी हालात वाकई भयावह हैं. यह किसी भी कीमत पर केवल सत्ता हथियाने के बारे में है। संभ्रांत महिला एथलीटों से छेड़छाड़ के आरोपी बाहुबली सांसद अग्रिम जमानत पाकर सुरक्षित और प्रसन्न हैं। एक और हरियाणवी राजनेता जिस पर अपनी फर्म में एक महिला कर्मचारी की आत्महत्या उकसाने का आरोप था, अब वर्तमान सरकार का सहयोगी है। बलात्कार और अन्य अपराधों के लिए जेल में बंद एक बाबा पैरोल पर बाहर है। सोशल मीडिया पर चलाए गए आख्यानों के माध्यम से देश के सबसे बड़े अल्पसंख्यक वर्ग को व्यवस्थित रूप से देशद्रोही के रूप में चित्रित किया गया है। ऐसा लगता है कि सरकार अपनी छवि के नशे में चूर है. लेकिन पैरों के नीचे से रेत खिसक रही है. भ्रम से बाहर आओ. लोग मूर्ख नहीं हैं.

Sad ... sad

 Indian media has hit its rock bottom in quality. It's a narrative-spinning soap opera. The entire Indian media is directing a cross border love story involving spy angle. So Seema Haidar has hijacked the fancy of our journos who look desperate to direct romantic reels having spy elements. Watch the news channels and you won't miss cheam rom-com movies and third grade soap operas. And a part of mother India is burning for the last three months. Indian news channels give more bytes to Ukraine war and Manipur is mentioned as a small-time side story. And the honorable PM who has all the words to speak about global issues now speaks a few lines about Manipur at long, long, long last. Manipur is burning in the same old fire born of divisive and polarizing politics. The government is busy in washing the financial crimes of opposition politicians to make them pure nationalists by including them in its ranks. The internal situation is indeed in a horrible state. It's only about power at any cost. The bahubali MP, accused of molesting elite female athletes, is safely out, happy and joyful having received anticipatory bail. Another Haryanvi politician who was accused of causing the death by suicide of a female employee in his firm is now the present government's ally. A godman accused and jailed for rape and other crimes is out on parole. The largest minority of the country is systematically portrayed as traitors through social media launched narratives. The government seems to be intoxicated about its image. But the sand is shifting under the feet. Come out of the delusion.  People aren't fools.

Something about doves

 

In order to survive, a dove’s hatchling needs the best of luck from all angles possible. It seems a fickle, vacillating and indecisive parenting. They need their guardian angels to be at maximum alert to thwart the renegadely lurking agents of death. The nest is so fragile and small, almost hitting high notes of imperishment as the bizarre, complicated sub-plots of life and death unfold around. It’s an almost see-through, flat assemblage of thin twigs placed at almost a public place, among easily reachable branches at a hand’s reach. Its mere sight giving a pickling and grilling push to the taste buds of many a predatory bird. The souls of cats getting into stir-frying and deep-frying mode at the culinary prospects.

You need to make a substantive leap of faith to collect any rhyme or reason on the question of how do they even survive as a species. The nest bears such a frustrating anatomy that even by a gentle breeze the egg or the hatchling may plop down by itself to the delight of brooding dark shadows of mortality. So among the boiling and steaming culinary scenarios, if a creamy-white egg survives and a hatchling comes out, even this can be taken as a successful nesting. As the burgeoning, cascading clamor of life moves on, the majority of the hatchlings survive for a few days at the most. It’s a miracle that the doves still survive as a species. It seems impossible without prompt, belligerent defense by mother existence itself. Maybe mother nature sets up a miraculous scheme of chance factors to keep some odd baby bird alive.

The cats are in love, following freaky mirages most of the time, so their absence in the garden means that one egg out of three survived. The other two were taken by the guest treepie after the expletive-rich fight that went for three days, rewarding it with two eggs. The rufous brown and pale chestnut bird kept threatening and blustering for three days to chuck out two out of three eggs.

The honey buzzard seems to be away on its poaching foray. It hasn’t been seen for a few weeks even though there is a bigger honeycomb near the dove hatchling.

The treepie then returned with a whippy and aggressive attitude to have a heavy lunch on the hatchling also. The doves, with their tentative gazelle looks, fought tooth and nail to foil its efforts. But a crow, spurred by a thieving itch, unapologetically swooped down to clutch the prize with an eerie precision to give the little one its first and the last flight. Now, the laughing dove is crying through its chuckling notes. To the uninformed audience she must be sounding laughing. But I know her situation and feel her pain oozing through her ripply, cuddling laughing chuckles.

Isn’t it that most of our instinctive reactions and the consequent emotions of anger, hate, jealousy, fear and prejudices are born of our ignorance of the reality surrounding that individual? It’s so easy to get judgmental of someone without being aware of the complete picture. Like taking the cries of a distraught dove as joyful chuckles! So it helps to know a bit more about people and their situations beyond a point that merely appears on the surface.

Trash pickers of future

 

The scientists are taking up their domains with a legendary integrity. Every inch on earth is under our sweeping ambit. So we are chronicling space odysseys. The terrestrial miracles have been regularized to an extent to turn them most mundane things possible. The earth is littered with our rampant desires’ jargon. There is a dangerous fallacy at work but it comes attired as the new-age holism. So we are now space bound like Vasco de Gama and Columbus explored hitherto unseen lands.

The low-earth orbit has three thousand satellites. And thousands more are in the pipeline. Among this overcrowding, the risks of collisions are emerging at a grave rate. Then we will have a very lucrative profession of space-cleaners. The trash collector, who just asked me if I have any stack of old newspapers to sell, has to know that his sons and grandchildren will have the chance to clean space if they will persist in the trade and use the latest technology, like the rest of the traditional occupations are adopting new technologies.

The grain merchants in Delhi have their grandsons working on laptops to manage what was earlier done in fat red-cloth bound account books. In Chawdi Bazaar in Delhi, in a tiny few square yard space crammed with nuts, bolts and the portly grandfather, hardly leaving any space in the tiny cubicle of a shop, the educated grandson is tucked in a corner and trying online selling. So maybe the coming generations of these trash pickers will turn tech savvy and take their endeavors to collect trash in the space.

And schooling starts

 

One year of preparatory schooling put enough burden on three-year-old Nevaan. The classrooms look almost like poor ghettos to mere two-year olds made to sit, already under the disciplinarian stick. Then the pandemic-facilitated lockdown was a big respite for these tiny students. KG 1 and KG 2 went through online mode without claiming too much from the rich bounty of childhood. The online classes were a big fun initially. Not going to the school is a big bonus to any child. It’s really joyful. But then the idea of joy is already relative. Now the one-hour online class has started to sound tedious. And off day from this session comes as joy presently. So the other day when he was expecting a full holiday, the message popped up that there will be a thirty-minute fun activity class today. ‘Oh no, even today we have school!’ he gets irritated.

A tiny story of faith and love

 

Here is beautiful story of love, faith, prayers and persistence. A nasty tornado strikes Kentucky. It’s a countryside house. A grandma with her fifteen-month-old granddaughter and three-month old grandson is all there to protect the two little angels. You don’t have the physical force to fight a tornado but you have a still more potent power in you to do it, prayers.

The storm’s eye lurks viciously. The old lady knows the house is just moments away from being blown off. She puts the kids in a bathtub and swathes them in pillows and blankets. More importantly, she puts a Bible with them and says prayers over them.

The tornado strikes the house. The house is blown off. The bathtub is picked off the floor and is blown away. The rescue workers find it at a distance, upturned among the telltale signs of the storm’s mauling. They lift it and hand over the kids to their granny. They are safe. Prayers indeed can help us in braving the strongest tornados of life.

In company with birds and animals

 

A basket is toppled. With typical simian assiduity, a mama monkey meddles with peace in the courtyard. The tiny imp on her back holds a raw banana as she expertly escapes. I can just bang a hollow bamboo on the parapet wall. She beautifully glides in air as she jumps to the other roof across the twelve-foot wide street. The baby safely perched on her back and holding the green banana as the trophy of their effort gives me a taunting, smirking look, as if to say, ‘You are no match for my mama!’

Even the doves, despite the foreordained tragedy about to take place in the scraggy, sparse nest, sometimes go against their nature and turn a fighter. A docile dove is a beautiful sight but to have these lovely cooing moments they need to fight with talons sometimes. It enkindles some faint hope for the hatchling in the nest—it’s a miracle that at least one egg was spared and there is a funny, hairless plump chick, forcing me to count it as a success even if it dies the same day. But there is every chance that you will be disappointed if you nurture hopes about the doves successfully raising a brood. I haven’t seen a single successful case in dozens of episodes witnessed over the decades.

The conspicuous calls of the long-tailed rufous treepie carry reminiscences from the hills. Sometimes they seem throwing a weighty pun at the local birds. It’s a migrant couple with cinnamon body, black head and bluish grey long graduated tail. These treepies are known to keep a covetous eye for the eggs and hatchlings of smaller birds. So the little ball of meat in the dove’s fragile, clearly visible nest has caught the treepie’s attention. The predator makes frequent forays to taste it. The doves don’t stand a chance against an eagle. But they think they can give it a fight against the treeepie. The moment the treepie lands on the curry-leaf tree, the doves turn soldierly and chase it away. The intruder takes off with a loud and shrill ko-ko-ko-ko. It kept coming for three days but the doves defended well.

As I have emphasized it many times, a dove hatchling needs to be very lucky to survive. The resident cats have smelt feline girls outside the fence. It meant at least the eggs survived. It seems the honey buzzer has found honey somewhere else, so it hasn’t turned up for the last few days. And now the challenger to its survival happens to be a treepie against which the docile doves can feign bravery for some time. Accepted that we need luck to survive but effort is luck’s operational part.

A visit to the nearby town

 

Colors represent the mirthful gratuity of mother nature. The void, the nothingness gets striped with sacramental plentitude of membranous manifestations of an entire array of colors. All it takes is just a few colors to transmute the dull, plastid screen into a lively drama.

Colors speak a lot about our personality as well. The colors of cars, for example. Whenever I see a red car on the road, I brace myself for some extra caution. The red cars seem to whizz past with infernal temper. They look highly competitive and seem eager to smite away any other vehicle in speed and attitude. They gesticulate quite forcefully and look like a big siren warning you to stay away. The people driving red cars carry a bit of extra adrenaline, which is helpful for fun and adventure but is pushy for those around. Moreover, extra adrenaline on the road is an inappropriate setting. So give them enough space as they go raising a tornado on the road.

As I went lazily on my scooter on the road, going to the nearest town, mulling over the credits and debits of life, the red signal flashed in the rear-view mirror. Instantly I left the entire road to the red-gallant. You are blameworthy if you don’t do it, especially in case of angry red bigger vehicles than yours. Do it to avoid any gruesome spectacle. As it passed arbitrarily shoving away any opposition, flaunting its extraordinary stature, the windy storm was enough to shake me and my tiny two-wheeled machine. My stewardship pretty heavily shaken, I went still slower.

After fifteen minutes, I reached a congested crossing in the town. On a packed road in towns, the two wheelers carry some advantage. They need little space so that you can maneuver among the bigger vehicles stranded for space. As I slowly trudged ahead, I saw the red car. I crossed it with a self-styled smirk. The tortoises still win the races, after all. The Indian roads are a great leveler. To allay the fears of slow movers, let me point out that the costliest cars cannot fly. And the pony carts and slow guys like me have as much chance in reaching the destination as any of the costliest, reddest car.

Then there was a sight to behold my attention in the town. A golden retriever proves that it’s indeed a capable retriever. At the confectionary shop, it knows which biscuits to retrieve to match the spools of pleasantry in its mood. With an admixture of loyalty and authority, it walks by the side of its master, safely holding the biscuit packet in its mouth.

The philosophy of being master of none and jack of all trades

 I know it's very difficult to like everyone around. We are primarily indifferent to the strangers. And that constitutes the major part of humanity around us. Now come those whom we know directly or even indirectly. Among these we have strong likes and dislikes for someone. Let's start with the ones whom we dislike. Dislike is a pretty heavy value judgement. It leaves long shadows of emotions and thoughts in our brain that eat a lot of energy, block the smooth flow of pranic energy inside, leaving behind niggling tugs of restlessness at our being. Likes also have their effects at us. Because likes change into dislikes as well. Change is the ultimate law, we shouldn't forget. We create a web of dislikes to sustain our likes because the latter seems supportive to our identity. Ultimately both likes and dislikes have to melt because they are two sides of the same coin. But since dislikes leave direct negative impact on our psychosomatic system, it's advisable to start with dislikes. Cut down on your quota of dislikes, gradually like a sculptor chipping away extra stones to carve out a beautiful idol. Chip away slowly. The extra stone of dislikes is a part of you. Accept it. But it needs to be shed to be the best version of yourself. This is what i mean by making of oneself. You have the choice to be the same monolith as you were born. Nothing wrong with that. Just that at the end of the journey you feel guilty for having wasted an opportunity. We have to pass in the court of our own conscience. 

Try to be indifferent to the objects of your dislikes. The perception of someone as your enemy should dilute to indifference over a period of time. Once you have no enemies you will automatically get away from the weight of friendly attachment. I mean you will still like those whom you consider your friend but your liking won't come from your needs and a fear of support. It will be free of bondage. Once you become indifferent to your enemies, you become more realistic and natural about your friends as well. You don't hold too many expectations. Most of the time our expectations and needs of security pass as our likes and friendliness. You still will have your core group of people who will stay irrespective of your attachment or no attachment. And dear sadhak, as you move on the middle of likes and dislikes, equally distant from both, you don't feel the rub and friction that you feel on the edges on both sides. Start with being indifferent to your dislikes. Then everything becomes the same over the decades of your life. A sweet indifference.  Enemies and friends melt in the same pot.

 I'm no spiritualist preaching all encompassing love. That seems too idealistic to a common man like me. I talk about what is feasible. My only problem with scriptures of all religions is that they would straightaway ask one to be an earthly version of god, an all loving, smiling, godly entity. It makes you guilty. Beacuse you are human and would slip and the priests and scriptures stare like tough teachers in your conscience. I try not to forget that it's easy to say the most utopian things. But we are no gods. We are poor earthlings and we have our little journeys. The journeys of little species of nature. So my sadhna at the moment is just to cut down on my dislikes for my enemies, whom I sometimes feel like kicking at their bums for their errant ways, to a level of just mild irritated grimace, then to a slight burn at my ego, then to indifference, maybe later to forgiving and who knows, if I'm lucky, even love them one day. 

Dear brothers and sisters, why be a victim of too lofty expectations based on scriptural theses? I know I'm a work in progress. So why should I go itching for enlightenment? I will take my time. I decide my pace and feel happy if on the completion of another year on my journey i see some improvement. To be joyful about tiny gains is a wonderful art. I for one feel like celebrating the day when I am carefully walking and avoid crushing an ant. Why shouldn't I celebrate? If i don't have it in me to save elephants, why shouldn't I turn joyful on saving an ant? Saving an ant keeps the hope of care and consideration alive in me. I'm happy with my little quota of kindness for it saves me from complete darkness.

Master Aggarwal

 

The village schools of the eighties of the last century were the places where the domineering teachers ruled with illimitable authority and iron hand. Physically strong teachers trampled down any impertinent sign in the class with an alarming tenacity. They had a predilection for using their arms more than their brains. The students from the peasantry class were full of mischief and one needed a lot of iron-will to keep them subdued so as to at least retain them within the premises. Education and Jat farmers was a definite misalliance.

In good moods, they would have weighty puns as well. But the saturine shadow of their fickle moods always lingered on the premises. The teachers who created the maximum fear among the students were, by default, the best teachers among the peasantry. To crown it all, the best teachers were those who broke maximum number of sticks.

There were but some docile teachers, either on account of their mild temperament or lack of physical proportions to turn into a bull on rampage. These docile teachers suffered maybe even more than the students. The students would be kicked, tossed about, yelled at, thwacked and tomahawked by the bullying, big teachers. The beaten pupils would then target the docile teachers. Master Aggarwal was pretty harmless in this regard. Short, chubby, bald, with cute jowls, like Mr. Pickwick, he offered the chink in the stony teacher rampart. No wonder, the students targeted him. The students would pour out their entire vengeance against the teachers as a ‘class’. In a chilling conflagration of mischief, he was given the funniest names possible on earth. More rowdy type of students even misbehaved with him outrightly.

He was born and brought up in the nearest town and commuted daily to face the ordeal. It was like setting out a caged bird into a deep forest suddenly. He didn’t know the desi words in the farming slang. The students took advantage of it. If a student went missing for the day, he would inform him that their bitoda had fever. And Master Aggarwal would agree to it, thinking someone at home fell sick. Little did he know that bitoda stood for the conical structure for storing dung-cakes.

But then he kept his fight on. He kept a short stick and if striking wasn’t his forte, he would prod in the ribs and try to draw some painful cry from the inveterate souls. He also tried to fight on the nomenclature front. He called students ‘abe kambal’, ‘abe khesh’, ‘abe chaddar’, ‘abe pyjama’ based on the most ubiquitous item upon the student’s person.

Kaptan troubled him a lot. Master Aggarwal taught us Mathematics. It was our quarterly test and he arrived with the bundle of evaluated answer sheets. The students but won’t wait for him to start distributing the answer sheets and harangued him a lot. Kaptan as usual was pretty vocal in this. One of the last students in class, as far as marks were concerned but probably first in playing truant, he was very confident this time. During the examination, he was sitting after me and copied with an unbelievable attention. He wrote for the entire three hours. ‘I have never written this much in my entire life,’ he told me after the exam.

Master Aggarwal gave the sum and summary of the results before he started handing over the sheets to the students: ‘Sandeep scores hundred and Kaptan gets zero.’

Kaptan hardly knew anything about mathematics so almost the entire scribbling hadn’t any meaning. He couldn’t believe that so many written pages failed to get him even a single mark. But then he had his own interpretation. Master Aggarwal had very proudly written Zero in flowing alphabets. The Z looked like number three and the over-zealous ‘ero’ looked like three zeroes. That gave Kaptan the right to claim that he had actually scored 3000 out of 100.

A poor man's hospital woes

 

Espousing a keen sense to follow the conventionalities, and somehow handle the hormonal-led heightened palpitations of early youth desire, Ballu got married at sixteen, became father at seventeen, a grandfather at thirty-five when his eldest daughter gave birth to a girl. Imbued with the routine colors of a mundane low-income household, any little pleasure comingled with lots of pain as if in payment to the former, harrowed by continuously evolving challenges, trying to forget the painful constriction of life through cheap liquor, in the next ten years he had many grandchildren.

Sadly, his youngest grandson was born with congenital defect concerning food canal and the respiratory system. A complicated surgery followed. The infant didn’t survive but he left his mark—a bill of three and half lakh rupees to be settled by the poor family. They are landless daily wage earners. It meant they had to borrow the money. Now life and living will exact a bit higher price from them. But they aren’t crestfallen. ‘After all, we come to this world to do exactly these kinds of things only,’ he philosophizes.

The snapshot of a December day

 

The honeycomb in the curry-leaf tree is a buxom round thing now. It serves to have some flowers in your garden. It gives an opportunity to the honeybees to survive for some more time in your area. I keep my eyes ready for the lone honey buzzard that sometimes scans the skies for some odd honeycomb somewhere. Apart from some innocent plunders during childhood, I have never tried to take away honey from a comb. It is as bad as someone taking money from my account. Its smell and sight are my primary takeaways. Maybe they sense and feel safe this way because the honeybees stay almost permanently in the yard.

The sky ponders with an infinitely impersonal look. There are hundreds of marigolds basking under the hazy sunrays of December. In the afternoon, a pale sun shining upon the unassuming flowers, I find the bees almost dozing in calm slumber after getting overfed on the pollen. Look at these little things and an instinct’s illumination, shrouded in the ordinary promptings of a common man, turns it a beautiful world.

The cats are growing finely and the coquettish mysteries cajoling from outside the fence turn them more out-bound these days. Desire is in incubation and they seem to have a liking for cat girls. It means the dove’s eggs are safe so far. At least the eggs may hatch. Beyond that I don’t see much of a chance. It’s such a careless, flimsy nest of sinewy twigs, so low and almost public, that some eagle will have a bigger hatchling breakfast in lieu of the cats missing on the egg breakfast.

In the next-door granduncle’s house, all Labrador Tuffy can do is to bark at the monkeys. He cannot scale walls and jump over roofs like them. One or the other monkey purposefully sits at a point visible to the helpless dog. The clever monkeys keep changing their post, and the sentry Labrador goes barking through the day. He has to realize that one shouldn’t test one’s lungs over the issues about which one cannot do much.

A buffalo that tuned a Mausiji

 

Some people have such incorruptible, indomitable sense of discipline that they would literally make it a credo of their life to avoid any kind of debasement and deformity to the laboriously polished veneer on their persona. Tau Karan Singh had such a disciplined, well ordered and perfectly set-up life off duty that even the duty hours in uniform as an army man stood out a liberal spree of pleasantries and fun. He maintained his well-disciplined tempo, while his peers appeared simply limping and hobbling on the path like errant brats. Any comparison was out of cards.

After retirement, and his routine of thought, action, speech and behavior still more firmly etched in the sacred book of a well-spelt, managed life, he slightly lost the legendary equanimity of mind only in one instance. The stubborn buffalo, ever caught in the ignoble excrescence of indiscipline in its dull brain, tested his patience, the main bulwark of his disciplined life, which stood unruffled even during wars.

Well, there is a pleasanter side to even very grim affairs. Talk to any soldier who has been stationed in Ladhak, he will talk of snows and multi-pronged sorrows in the barren desert. But mention Ladhak to Tauji and an august, illustrious and vivifying smile would surface on his gentle features. It was a very soft smile but you could feel its subterranean sprawl, its vastness in his soul. You just could feel it. The ravishing immensity of those memories would take him in its soft embrace. The precipitous slopes and climatic malignity lost their meaning. You could see that his soul was dancing in inexorable joviality with some fond memories. He would smile and have a lungful of tented kitchen warmth and aroma. ‘Well, the butter toast, fruit jam and tea in the snows tasted far better than anything I have ever eaten in my life!’ he would recall the taste in his mouth, as if lost in a dream, his soul sorteying on sublime promenades in those high barren mountains.

Coming back to the buffalo, she would go into the farthest recesses of the village pond, forcing the ex-soldier to wade his way across the bunch-grass and pinching shrubbery lest she escaped into the countryside for an undisciplined furlough. Both of them would return after a few hours. Her horns adorned with muddy clumps of grasses, promiscuous signs of her indiscipline and revelry.

Tauji, who would have thought hundred times before reprimanding even a Chinese or Paki soldier if they crossed the border inadvertently, finally lost his patience and would chastise the disorderly beast. ‘Sali!’ he would mutter as he gave it a tiny rap on its haunches. This exclamation turned into a regular affair, given the buffalo’s freewheeling indiscipline, so much so that the villagers started to address the buffalo as his son’s Mausiji.

Online kindergarten class

 

As the stalled education system grappled with the Covid-time shutdown of schools, the institutions tried to provide some succor to the anxious parents by going for online classes. It was something superficial and half-baked but the show had to go on and the little students needed to be reminded daily that there are things called studies, school, class, book and teachers.

Suddenly a new set of instructions flashed on Nevaan’s mother’s phone. The teachers wanted a plain background during the online classes. The reason was that one student sat by an aquarium during the class. So instead of paying heed to the alphabets, the students had a good online discussion about the fish, which one is a good fish, which one is bad, who is the Papa fish or Mama fish. Taking inspiration from it, the next day a tiny girl sat with her cat. Then someone found his dog in the class initiating parleys about cats and dogs. So now to avoid the extra load of new and newer topics, the overworked online teachers want a plain white background behind all the students.

A success story

 

Gopu’s mother has always believed that he has all that it takes to be a fighter pilot. The reason being that he always stood above his twin brother Lopu in studies. Lopu would come last in the class but Gopu beat his brother and emerge victorious as second last. He always scored two or three more marks than his brother who scored in the vicinity of thirty somethings. More importantly, Gopu would break toy planes in childhood and try to assemble the broken parts. ‘He has a fancy for planes!’ his mother would gush with pride. I think he had better fancy for breaking and crashing them.

And why was Gopu’s mother so sure that he would become a fighter pilot? Apart from getting two marks more than his brother, he made amazing paper planes and would not settle for any other toy than a plane, which he would try to crash in the most innovative ways. Well, that’s how mothers are. Their love is always there, irrespective of what we become.

They grew to be big-bottomed, chubby guys with lots of fat around them after completing their senior secondary schooling. Money was somehow arranged to send them to Canada on student visa. ‘We aren’t going there to study. That’s just for visa. We are going to work there!’ they declared. And true to their words, they are now making the most of their limited work hours allowed under the student visa. They work as courier delivery guys and have saved a few thousand dollars. The stories of their success have started to do rounds in the housing society where their parents live. The amount is calculated in Indian rupees and that makes them celebrities in the gated society.

On being reminded about the fighter pilot project, their mother says, ‘Oh, they are already earning a pilot’s salary. It carries risks also in plying fighter planes.’

They won’t have inspired so many coming-of-age youngsters in their housing society by becoming fighter pilots as they have done by earning dollars as courier delivery guys in Canada. The parents cite them as examples on the topic of making money and setting a career. A few parents are now taking tips from the successful twins about the ways and means of following their footsteps.

Be a saint with your innocent pleasures

 Why would there be sense pleasure in nature? Can you imagine any type of life possible without it on the planet? Is manifestation possible at all without sense driven gratification? Isn't sensual pacification the gateway from unmanifest to the manifest? When a flower blooms isn't it a result of the black-bee's sense gratification? When a rishi goes into the caves to launch his war against senses, isn’t he himself a result of sense gratification of his parents? When I aim for the ultimate gratification, the much cherished perpetual bliss, isn’t that a super gratification? Poor sense pacifications, they are such a maligned entity. Their theoretical negation forms the base all the endless stream of words in holy books and scriptures. While the reality is that at the level of life manifestation, as it's on earth, how will you even survive without this faculty? These are only faculties that have evolved with us in the game of survival. The key lies in their balanced usage for a wholesome life. Those on the path of so called spirituality start with an acute sense of some imbalance, some pain, loss, bitterness. The latter are just results of mismanaged, skewed usage of our natural faculties. I have seen very well poised and balanced people serving as hawkers and rickshaw pullers in crowded bazaars. Almost saintly in demeanor. At so much ease with whatever nature has given them at the level of senses and their use. And I have seen high priests, the careerist spiritualists, unfortunately most of them in fact, who are well decked up in the armour of dharma and holy look, but peace is farthest from their eyes. And so many of them take a cute tumble with their lady followers. It's only about at being at ease with yourself. Nothing less, nothing more. One can use any kind of words to describe it. There is no end to words. They are the products of the faculty of our mind only. Sometimes back an old sadhu was ruminating that he got a nightfall which he considered a sin. Well, had you been healthy in your ideas about sex and women, had been balanced in your ideas and usage of this natural sense born faculty, you won't have been crying over nightfalls in old age, I thought. It's not about negating sense born desires. It's not even about getting saturated with them. It's all about balance. Like when you eat. Not much to give you ache, not too less to starve you. Like Buddha realized when he almost died after not eating anything for months. Learn to be at ease dear brothers and sisters. If you are sitting at a brothel and are at ease with yourself, you are your own saint. If you are occupying the highest seat of a pontiff and itching with restlessness then you are a novice still. So dear brothers and sisters, learn the art of being at ease with yourself wherever you are situated. Balance. Balance. Balance. In everything that life offers. Accept. Accept the windfalls of the pleasure of flesh with humility and gratitude and pay back with sincere hard work. It's a beautiful world because of the teasing interplay of sensory desire seeking, not because of those who preach against it and keep smoldering with desire within. Those who are running away from life, relationships, needful responsibilities, mundane pleasures need to remember that most of our gods, rishi and muni had beautiful partners, families, children. They are called bhagwan because they used their energies in an optimum way and used their sensual faculties in the way they wanted. They used them in a balanced way instead of falling imbalanced to one particular impulse. In balanced amount even poison serves like amrit. In imbalanced amount even amrit turns poison. A judicious mix of what nature has given is nothing short of enlightenment. Why put your fate solely in the pages of so called holy books? They are mere indicators, just creation of minds who could write better than you and me. So ease up. Just be. Accept what you are. Why negate. As the component of being at ease builds up, the tendency to go into impulsive, imbalanced use of sense pleasure faculties will get transformed itself. New neurological circuits develop that drive more hormones of wellness through our system. It's a very simple physiological fact. Why interpret it in terms of mythological proportions? I know it disturbs a lot many minds who have accepted the superiority of particular paths in taking them to the exclusive class of refined and holy beings on earth. That also is another form of ego. To desire to be in a state from where the rest of humanity seems meek ignorants who need reformation and enlightenment. So take this slightly bitter pill of information with a glass of water and be at ease. If your mind still feels disturb then rethink about the utility of gurus and scriptures who haven't given you equanimity of mind to even digest this. Then reboot. And smile. Then laugh. At yourself. It helps.

Taking a grip of the trade

Coming from a deprived and underprivileged social strata, that requires one to hone a wide repertoire of survival techniques on a daily basis, Kala is now getting a foothold in the new trade. Befogged by tiny pinpricks in the back alleys, when one emerges on the main thoroughfare, it seems nothing short of a fresh dilemma. But braving against all odds, he has firmly established himself as a dependable vegetable hawker.

Earlier he struggled to remember even the name list of the vegetables loaded in his cart. He sounded plucky and lacking confidence in his shouts. But practice makes a man perfect. ‘I have been shouting all these names in the privacy of the fields. But the problem is that I have crammed the entire series. I have to speak all of it. Problem arises when the item that I have shouted isn’t found in my cart and then they complain that if I don’t have that particular vegetable why did I shout its name. I try to cut out the names of the missing vegetables on a day but then I forget the entire series,’ he confided in me.

But he seems to have crammed a long series, longer than anything that he memorized during his few years of schooling. The villagers may keep grumbling but he keeps shouting the names of his vegetables like children shout while playing.

In his mid-forties now, he honorably spent three decades in the testing job of a daily wage laborer. He worked with consummate zeal and carried out tasks with amazing physical felicity. He lifted weights with throwaway ease. His vision’s breadth was limited to the tasks required by a mason’s helper. He mastered it eloquently. But then he started to feel a bizarre pull at his knees. His knees wobbled and gave arthritic pain. His life was thrown out of gear because he couldn’t perform the heavy duty of a mason’s helper anymore.

He had to dig deep into the repertory of his faculties to seek an alternative. He turned the spotlight on another source of living. He saw so many Biharis wandering the streets as vegetable hawkers and decided to join their league. But his rendition of vegetable names was far below par. They sent down shrill, fluid, distinctive notes of their products, while he gave muffled, dithering notes. In any case, here he is at his best after lots of cramming attempts in the solitude of the agricultural farms.

Pulling a rickshaw laden with vegetables seems a cakewalk to him. ‘It’s almost no work. I just have to walk around and shout!’ he tells gleefully. Little does he realize that salesmanship is a totalized endeavor requiring many traits to fleece, cajole and bind the customers. His sales are lowest among the vegetable hawkers. The people complain that his vegetables aren’t fresh. ‘Start buying from me first, so that I save some money and buy costlier fresh ones,’ he tells them.

Above all, he is happy at least in matching his rivals in yelling out the names of vegetables. Most importantly, he finds the job very easy. Well, everything is relative. His new job is almost no work to him. There are but broken-spirited vegetable sellers who move around as if the entire world’s responsibility is on their shoulders. The reason is that they haven’t gone through the furnace of plain physical drudgery like Kala has. In order to digest your current standing, take some time off and try some harder job. You will then realize the significance of your undertaking.

The Mathematics of Communal Bug

If we look into the communal history of the last four decades, we find a disturbing pattern in India. Big communal violence has shaken our social fabric almost once in decade: Delhi riots (1984), Mumbai riots (1992-93), Gujarat (2002), Muzaffarnagar (2013), Manipur (2023). Statistically a big communal flare-up jolts the fabric of our unity once in a decade. And during the lull period, there are little-little fireworks that are kept alive by politicians, vigilantes, hardliner religious leaders or anyone belonging to the power-aspirant group. The slow-smoldering smoke in the social fuel wood that reaches its burning point after a decade. Polarization on religious grounds is a dangerous pill of instant profits. So the communal element is a big trend in our politics these days. But statistics point to a great danger to our unity if this divisive element isn’t weeded out from our socio-political stream. As we can see from the above statistics, minor communal haggling and rhetoric creates enough fire under the social ground that it bursts out in a big flare after a decade. But the law of mathematics doesn’t stop here at the once-in-a-decade big communal flare-up. The big-scale communal fires separated roughly by a decade will churn out something far bigger in nature after their incubation period is reached. The exponential growth of hate! Like it happened in 1947. That was preceded by a communal bug that incubated for almost 90 years when the Britishers systematically introduced the element of communal divide in the Indian society in the wake of the revolution of 1857. And now, with year-long little communal propagandas going full throttle, resulting in a big tragedy almost once in a decade, we may reach the very same partition-time critical limit of social breach in 2040s, that’s almost hundred years after 1947. Even impartial mathematics is pointing to the dangers to our unity by the communal bug if political parties, organizations, religious leaders and other influential groups don’t discard divisive communal rhetoric from their plan of action to gain power and influence.   

Kissu's Chronicles

Kissu’s primary matter of fame in the village school, from class five to ten, was the fact that he had spent five previous years of his schooling in Arunachal Pardesh where his uncle was posted in the army. With a dramatic multitude of stories about that distant land that we saw in the map, he built a formidable reputation by telling spicy anecdotes from the mysterious land. The sluggish and stagnant air in the classroom would instantly vanish as the flurried notes of his hair-raising episodes touched our boyish hearts. Most of these were elephant stories, allegedly based on his own direct experiences with the pachyderms. His well-spun stories had a lot of scope to adjust and get digested in our boyhood imagination. Now but they seem too outlandish.

After matriculation, at the Industrial Training Institute (ITI) at the district town, he accumulated even more reputation. The Bollywood was spinning sylvan and sublime dreams of a hero with his ameliorative touch to undo the hideous deformities plaguing the society, especially the molestation of women, where the hero suddenly jumped among dozens of goondas and saved the honor of the damsel in distress, love would blossom then, followed by lots of dance and songs. He carried a hockey stick doing justice to the Bollywood heroes of the eighties and nineties who saved the society, especially the women in distress.

He walked with a perfectly puffed-up chest; his heroism and macho attitude seeking an opportunity to save some damsel in distress. Those were the times when the roadways buses carried a passenger load at least four times more than their full capacity. It was always an ill-omened adventure. You had to push into the throng with devil’s impunity. And when you emerged out of the stuffed box you felt misshapen to your last bone.

During one such scuffle among the multitudes to get a foothold onboard, a girl lost her footing at the crowded footboard as the bus started to crawl slowly. The driver usually drove it at a snail’s pace for a couple of minutes to allow the throng the last chance on any square centimeter of the bus still available for grabbing. The bus was moving very slowly and this girl softly slumped down. It wasn’t a hard fall, she just lost balance. There wasn’t a single scratch on her. She would have jumped back to regain her vertical. But that brief moment gave Kissu the opportunity to save his heroine like a Bollywood hero. He hoisted the shaken girl in his worked-out arms and started running. She was perfectly alright and had all the reasons to believe that it was an attempt to kidnap her in broad daylight.

Kissu thought himself to be the savior hero but to her he was nothing short of the most gruesome villain who played with the honor of women. She started beating him with her fists. His face got a lot of blows. Many people ran to rescue her. After getting a few thwacks on his body by other heroes, who came running to rescue the girl, a much perturbed Kissu couldn’t make out why he was rewarded that way for his good did.

‘I was taking her to the hospital!’ he shouted in wonderment, still facing the barrage of many fists. ‘Sometimes, even a few seconds delay in reaching the hospital is a matter of life and death!’ he hollered his logic over the din.

‘Take your mother and your sister to the hospital, you fool!’ the girl shrieked with such a look of abhorrence in her eyes that Kissu instantly knew she thought him to be the cruelest goonda ever.