Skirmish between a cobra and a peasant woman

 Randhir is my share-cropper, an arrangement between an idle owner and a hardworking farmer. He has been very hardworking during our decades-long partnership. Earlier he worked very hard but now in his sixties he is retired from active farming, just plies the tractor, directs the farm workers, drinks, plays cards in chaupals, suffers fits of mysterious nature, raises verbal storms against his still strong and robust wife. He is fine with numbers and keeps a little pocket diary where he manages the accounting figures concerning both of us to the last paisa.

The doctors couldn’t give any clue to his swoons so I gave him a spiritual certification that he goes into a Samadhi. He has no clue to what I say so just laughs at it, taking it to be just one of poor jokes cracked by bookish guys. All of us are our own doctors, the best doctors in fact because we know our own system more than anyone else. I was once asking him about what and whys of his fits, how did he feel etc. ‘Well, I hardly remember anything. It just strikes suddenly. When I come back to my senses, I always find a few drops of urine on my pyjama and after that I feel very weak for a couple of days,’ he gave me the medical summary to diagnose.

I researched on it and failed to come to a conclusion. So while the doctors failed to check his fainting swoons and fits, he devised a solution for himself. ‘The tractors jumps and shakes my body quite vigorously and due to this I don’t suffer fits while plying my tractor,’ he looked assured. After that he started spending as much time as possible on his tractor. His wife, who worked equal to two strong bulls in the hard field labor, could draw consolation that hers wasn’t a case of total exploitation as her husband was at least contributing to farming as a tractor driver.

Then the myth was broken one day. Randhir all smug, and looking to the mouth-watering prospects of getting a full liquor bottle and drink in the evening with pals, was plying his tractor on the road on the way to the town. A couple of farmers sitting comfortably by his sides on the mud-guards. Maybe it was the fault of the road makers. They had made it too smooth with a fresh layering of tar, so Randhir’s body didn’t shake sufficiently to avoid a fit. The tractor was running at a reasonable speed and the farmer lost consciousness, suddenly without any prior warning. Both his fellow peasants had to jump into action with the agility of a rat snake to avoid a common fit for all three of them in the roadside ditch. After that Randhir isn’t contributing to farming even as a tractor driver. His wife is aggrieved. She feels exploited in this one-sided equation. But she is helpless in doing work. A life-long habit of hard labor, her Ikigai, she just cannot quit it. But she harasses him a lot, cracks jokes, treats him like a child, takes puns and much-much more.

There is some wild growth in a corner of one of the fields. A huge cobra stays there. People talk about it with awe and wonder. The share-cropping couple has planted laukis. Randhir’s wife is helpless in doing hard work. She has to do farming work to keep her life meaningful. So she is busy in weeding out the extra growth among the vegetable vines. The cobra struck at her sickle-bearing hand. It was there under the vines. She fell back due to the shock and the offended reptile in fact ran over her stomach. She was all alone in the field at that time. Imagine the shock and nightmare of a cobra strike.

I am presenting here her own words as I listened to her a bit guiltily and her eyes almost accusing me of partnership in crime as if saying it was your cobra because it stays in your field. Here goes her post-bite story:

‘I fell down and it jumped over my body and crawled over me. I couldn’t stand up. I started crying. Tried to get up but would fall down. Then I thought why die while running and repeatedly falling down. So I tied my duppatta on my hand, gave a cut around the bite and lay down weeping to die peacefully.’

After fifteen minutes her son arrived and took her to the snakebite healer who uses a secret herbal concoction for detoxification. The patient vomits and goes into diarrheal fits to cleanse the system. It works well. Surprisingly. The success is almost 95 percent. Most of the snake-bitten people get cured.

She was up for terrible vomiting and diarrhea for a couple of days. Randhir felt inconvenience about it. ‘Put her cot near the washroom so that there is no unnecessary messing up of the place,’ he managed the situation as a firm family patriarch. Then he went to her cot and consoled, ‘You will get cured, don’t worry. Most probably the snake just gave a hiss on your skin and you panicked.’ Then he lamented about food not getting cooked on time, the usual inconveniences born in the life of a farmer with the wife getting bedridden. She listened to all this, not saying much but resolved to make it very tough for him once she got back to her feet.

These are very tough people. I wasn’t expecting her to go to the fields at least during this season. But she was right there at the farm doing the usual chores the very next week itself. Salutes to these courageous Jat peasant women!  

PS: She was earlier bitten by a snake while taking out dungcakes from a bitoda, a conical dungcakes store covered with hay and straw. Randhir himself was bitten by a snake in the fields few years back. So they are veterans in the scary experience. The farmers world over lead such a tough life. But when it comes to setting narratives and building agendas by the power aspirants  the farmers and their cause lie at the base of their scheme.

A sweet-sour birdie nostalgia

Love is in the air. The air is cool as if suffused with a kind of lyrical prose. A pair of painted storks flies in beautiful bonhomie. Beyond the clutches of unwarranted passions, they are a pair for life and have come here down to the plains during the winters. Till fifteen years back there was enough room for them in the countryside. We had wastelands, waterlogged lands, ponds, tanks and streams. Now everything is taken by the humans to meet the ever-increasing resource scarcity.

We had thousands of birds, including ducks, migrating to our part during the winters. Sadly, as we moved on, maintaining our acrobatic balance on the rope of ever-tightening survival, with our hybridized dreams and dysfunctional desires, ever following the blurred forms of a forever receding future, those promiscuously vibrant times met a hasty end. Now every nook corner has farmlands, human habitations, factories and roads. The last sarus crane call that I heard in the skies above must have been more than a decade back. Those were big birds, almost the kings of the birdie kingdom. Their call was a charming and quirky bugling, a sort of high-pitched trumpeting sound with long-drawn notes that went sizzling in the air. Gone are they now. Even to recall them seems transcendental.

The sweet-sour pain of nostalgia sets up a world of collapsing verses around a poet who attempted to versify the magical mystery of nature around. But my ears refreshingly echo with the sound as I write this. For a moment it gives a semblance of familial comforts but quickly recedes as the present-time’s harsh and hard realities arrive and overtake with haughty urgency. The present is too tightly woven and always seething with grievances. That past lies now like broken shards of glass. As I look at them, there are sighs of estrangement floating around.

Love, longing and loss

 Loss, longing and love brewing a mist in the morning forest. He walks on a lone path. Then the sunrays streak in. Everything turns into love. Loss and longing glide away with misty vapours. Love is nothing but all the lesser emotions sublimated fully.

A little air purifier

 

Mother nature's little air purifier in front of our place. These green leaves are an extension of our lungs. But people take nature for granted and hardly anyone speaks in favour of these green tissues of our lungs. People usually complain of a couple of Cobras that stay here. A few sightings and people go paranoid. Why stretch your fears beyond a point. Just be careful a bit more, that's all. Use torch while moving in the dark. Walk gently to allow them to creep away as you approach. And they eat mice with relish. The area is almost mouse-free. And mother nature knows more than us. There were mice that's why there are snakes. And to ensure that the snakes don't crawl at each human step there are plenty of peacocks doing the rounds. They must be eating many little snake hatchlings to keep the number finely balanced. But who is there to keep a check on us? In our case only we can do it, individually and collectively.

Faith

 If we believe we have the capacity to do what we are supposed to do, there is no reason to believe in the higher powers supposedly guiding our way. But the question is, do we really know what we are supposed to do. All choices and decisions stand on the verge of either falling this way or that. Faith, at some point, is bound to have its final say. Faith is pretty free flying. Tether it to reason and logic, it hides immediately behind the dark clouds. It’s not there to be tamed by the chains of reason. It is good to put reason at the forefront of your skills like the steely jaws of a mighty earthmover. That’s a convenience, a skill to lead life on a day to day basis. Reason is a very good servant. Faith but is the master that guides the overall operation of life. By faith I don’t just mean faith in the Gods over there in the sky vaults. It primarily comprises our faith in ourselves, in our soul’s intimacy with the possibilities of joy, an urge to lead a meaningful life. Extraterrestrial faith is a mere supplement to our inherent faith in ourselves. Isn’t it faith in ourselves that we use all the reasons and logic to not only survive but also strive to be happy and joyful? In fact, we hatch ‘reasons’ to nurture our ‘faith’. Never lose your faith. It’s like losing what and who you are.

Silence

 Each word is incomplete, just an abstract, broken fragment born of thoughts arising in the mind. And the mind itself a grainy fragment of the overall consciousness. Words are mere grains of sand. With sandgrains we try to make castles, huge castles that we cast in pursuance of the ever-missing meaning of life. Sand slips, we go for awkward flips. Words are mere broken arrows. How will one even win a battle with broken arrows. Words are mere sparks, temporary flashes coming out of the endless coffers of silence. They just give a little flash of light around our feet as we grope in the darkness seeking a way out of our puzzles. Words are mere temporary twinklings on the vast canvas of silence. They themselves tell their story of incompleteness, their own meaninglessness behind all the meanings ascribed to them. And the moment we listen to their story, we arrive at the moral of the final story. The moral of their story is silence. Silence and emptiness behind all this noise and happening. And as I write this, huge rumblings of megh naad, the rumblings of clouds, buzz across my head. A booming cosmic storm that chucks out the outer shell of words, crushes the stones to spread the sand to go flying with the winds. The words getting sucked into a cosmic cascade and whirlpool of energy. And beyond that silence, stillness and emptiness.

September musings

 Rains and more rains. Mold in the pickle jar. White coral mushroom on the rotting plank. Potatoes with spikey sprouts. Baby frogs everywhere. Lots of nests in the trees and plants. The sky laden with flying insects. Well-fed serpents and croaky long-limbed toads. Thickly overgrown trees and promiscuous creepers. The air with a musty smell. The railings more rusty. The sky just a cloudy canvas. Hot teas and spicy pakoras. Smiles. Gossips. Love and loss in the season of moss. Well-bathed caravan looking to sneak in and take a shelter in the autumnal camp. Well, it has been too damp. Welcome now the sunny lamp.

@

Many situations of life turn meaningful, and hence bearable, the moment we accept our share, our part in shaping the things as they stand.

@

For the angels to stay relevant, there have to be demons. Well, that's too big a price for goodness. Let there be no demons, even if that means all angels losing their status and turn ordinary entities. Just a pleasant commonness! Why go for the extraordinary? Especially when the cost is too high, like having to do with demons just to have angels around.

@

Avoid the things that cost you your smile and laughter. It will never be a loss in the long term, I can assure you. Avoid also the things that fetch you an instant grimace. That's an instant gain. So start now with a smile!

@

Preface and Blurb (Notebook of a Self-unmade Man)

 Dear readers, sharing the preface and Blurb of my latest book, Notebook of a Self-unmade Man

https://notionpress.com/read/notebook-of-a-self-unmade-man

https://www.amazon.in/dp/B0CJ4S6S3M/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2QSI68QBWRO3A&keywords=notebook+of+a+self-unmade+man&qid=1694773806&sprefix=notebook+of+a+self-unmade+man%2Caps%2C375&sr=8-1

PREFACE

Dear readers, it is always a special, almost festive, occasion to present a new book to the few people who find my writing relevant, who tell me that it makes a positive difference to their lives to read my books. I know my book is my own responsibility when no mainstream publisher takes up the project. The onus is on me to write, rewrite, type, edit, typeset, format, design the cover, write blurbs and the rest of all and sundry works that cover the workflow of a publishing company in producing a book. Of course this process involves multiple people who give their best to produce a nice book.

Now in my case, just like so many other self-publishing authors, the entire workflow needs to be carried by the author himself. I don’t complain, ought not to in fact because writing a book is my choice. I am grateful that at least there are avenues for self-publishing available for small-time writers to keep their passion alive. Earlier the writers were not this much lucky and many a fine writer couldn’t pursue their journey because there was hardly any scope to present one’s creativity beyond the select space of a few dozen publishers. Thus many creative flames got extinguished. Thankfully, if one isn’t solely bound by economic considerations, one can pursue one’s creative passion by writing and self-publishing books.

I would say I’m my own writer, editor, formatter, graphic designer, website designer and its manager, marketing manager and social media promoter. It’s very interesting to learn so many things. See, I know my passion is solely my choice and it’s my duty to fulfill all the conditions in my capacity to keep it going.

I know despite the best of my efforts, in my multiple capacities, it’s unavoidable that some quality and content issue might be visible in the book. But on my part I work over months to make a book that goes as near to a good publisher’s product as it’s possible for a singular resource working for multiple designations. My effort is always to improve all the multiple skills listed above. It’s my choice to publish books. These days, I don’t even approach any publisher with the script. Why waste time while the very same can be used in further refining your product.

In the solitude of my countryside house, nestled within the sometime serene and sometime noisy embrace of a humble village, I have found solace and a refuge from the bustling chaos of the outside world. Within these walls and the little garden that covers the front yard, I have discovered a profound connection with the natural world and the insightful beauty that lies within its subtlest details.

This book is a collection of my thoughts, observations and reflections on the world that unfolds before my eyes. It is a chronicle of the happenings within my little garden, where the ebb and flow of life's cycles are mirrored in the delicate dance of flowers, the rustling leaves of a little clump of trees, and the ever-changing seasons that grace this sacred patch of earth. It’s nothing short of a temple to me. As I witness these simple, natural instances, I delve into the depths of their significance, searching for the larger meanings they hold for life and living.

While I may dwell far from the bustling cities and the grand stages of global affairs, my words extend beyond the boundaries of my village. Within these pages, I offer my insights and opinions on the broader happenings of our world, weaving together the threads that connect the microcosm of my garden to the macrocosm of society. It is my hope that by exploring the intricacies of my surroundings, I may shed light on the human condition and the universal truths that shape our existence.

This book is not a scholarly treatise or a manifesto of ideologies. Rather, it is a deeply personal account of my own journey—a journey of self-discovery, healing and enlightenment about deeper truths. As I pour my thoughts onto the pages, I find catharsis for my bruised soul and a balm for my losses. Each word becomes a salve, mending the wounds inflicted by the trials and tribulations of life.

Through the act of writing, I transform my solitude into a source of joy and peace. The blank page becomes a canvas upon which I paint the vivid colors of my emotions, the swirling currents of my thoughts, and the gentle whispers of my dreams. It is my sanctuary, my sacred space, where the turbulence of the world gives way to a gentle calmness that permeates my being.

I invite you, dear reader, to embark on this journey with me—a journey that traverses the seasons, meanders through the blooming flowers, and contemplates the mysteries of existence. Within these pages, may you find moments of reflection, inspiration, and perhaps even a renewed sense of wonder for the world that surrounds us.

As we navigate the pages together, let us embrace the beauty of the little things, for in them lies the profound wisdom that can illuminate our lives. May my humble musings serve as a reminder that amidst the noise and chaos, there is tranquility to be found, and that within the solitude of our own hearts, we can discover the most profound truths.

Welcome to my world, where the quiet whispers of nature and the transformative power of words intertwine to create a tapestry of meaning and a sanctuary for the soul.

BLURB

Step into the enchanting world of the countryside with this captivating book that invites you to witness the magic that unfolds within the author's little garden. In this collection of poignant observations, heartfelt reflections and profound insights, the author takes you on a journey through the seasons, offering a rich tapestry of life's intricate beauty.

Through the author's keen eye and introspective musings, you will discover a profound connection to the natural world, where the delicate dance of flowers, the rustling leaves and the changing seasons become metaphors for life's deepest lessons. From the simplicity of a budding blossom to the grandeur of nature's cycles, you will be captivated by the wisdom found within these pages.

Beyond the boundaries of the author's countryside abode, the words transcend time and space, delving into the complexities of the human condition and offering thought-provoking insights on broader societal issues. From the bustling cities to the global stage, the author's opinions and perspectives will challenge and inspire, urging you to contemplate the larger meanings of life and our place within it.

This book is a sanctuary for the soul, a healing journey that transforms solitude into a source of joy and peace. It is a balm for the bruised soul, a panacea for the losses endured. Delve into the author's world and allow his words to ignite your own sense of wonder, as you uncover the hidden truths nestled within the delicate embrace of nature's little happenings.

Open your heart, open your mind, and immerse yourself in the transformative power of this heartfelt writing. Let the author's journey become your own, as you find solace, inspiration and a renewed appreciation for the intricate tapestry of life that surrounds us all.

Walking

I walk far more than any ultra-marathon runner. In fact I beat all the runners combined in terms of walking and running. I walk with my mind. I walk on the legs of thoughts. They keep me on the busy highway. The other day, someone complained, 'You hardly go out these days, always busy with books!' Now how to tell that person that I'm always walking, walking in the mind. The best test is just to walk with legs only with the mind shut off. Because walking with both mind and legs can be very tiring. Walking on legs with positive feelings is somewhat better. But there was Krishna who walked on a blood smitten battlefield. He just walked on his legs. With no feelings and thoughts. What detachment! No wonder we worship him as a god now.

The homosapiens' last sigh

 Human mind is conditioned to hatch and plot more and more human-centric realities. Artificial intelligence and synthetic biology are the latest tools to further spread our intellectual wings and forge bigger realities. But ultimately the 'maker' will stand synonymous with the 'made'. Presently we can feel proud while looking at our products because they stand separate and lowly while we muse our our creations. But now there is a fundamental shift. The product isn't strictly outside our physiological body. The product is creeping inside us--into our neurons as artificial intelligence; into our cells as synthetic biology. We have been crazy about making something. And when there isn't anything left to make, we have started making a newer version of our own self.   It's just like nature produced we humans on this tiny planet but got devoured by its product. Similarly the homosapiens will be gradually absorbed by a new product, a new species. Just evolution, maybe. So why worry. Make the most of it as one of the last real homosapiens generation on this small planet. Enjoy what life and mother nature has still to offer.

The wordless language of silence

 Language is used in pursuance of intellectual truth, an edifice created by the mind on the basis of sense perception. It's a mere utility just like the birds have wings to fly. With words you can make a career at the most, be it any field. And intellectual truth is just a portion of the experiential truth which one feels in the moments of dissolving the self in beautiful nature where nature is cooing its real secrets through sighing winds, rippling brooks, waving trees, playing clouds, solitary valleys, wild flowers and more. 

The moment we really feel, not just theoretically because that again is mindwork, that thoughts and their end product, intellectual reality, is a mere sense perception based functionality, just like an ant's single-sense based craze to seek a grain of sugar, we take a quantum jump into higher dimension. We enter the dimension of experiential reality which again is a portion of the ultimate reality but it's far far bigger than the intellectual reality. It's a portal to the unknown.

From words to silence to unknown. It's just a matter of rise in consciousness. Words speak of something limited, something symbolically fixed to help us understand a tiny portion of existence around. Silence speaks, wordlessly, of its own self. Open yourself to it. It will embrace you in its maternal loving arms and transport you into a far bigger dimension. And obviously one feels better at an uncrowded place. Don't we feel better after coming to a peaceful hill station, leaving behind the hustle and bustle of bazaar and cities? In the same way our consciousness is also seeking avenues to a broader dimension, from intellectual to experiential, from materiality to immateriality. 

Happy be thy journey from noise to silence, from running (both in mind and body) to arriving home, from restlessness to perfect ease.

Oneness

 Look at your body and think, whether it exists in abstraction. It doesn't. This ecosystem is your extended body. Then earth is this ecosystem's extended body. Solar system is earth's extended body. The Milky way is solar system's extended body. Supergalaxy is Milky way's extended body, and so on so forth. Now can you guess what is the meaning of "universe"? It is "one song". If you still didn't get it, no need to waste time, carry on like before, but don't forget to smile and have fun.

The real religion

 If you relegate luxury of life to the paradise after death, believe me you will not be lacking in spirits to turn your own as well others' lives into hell here on earth. 

Joy postponed is embracing pain in the present. If you live just for outdated principles, customs and dogmas in the hope of hitting the jackpot of joy in paradise later, you are missing the point of life. Make love, compassion, joy, care and happiness the tenets of your living and you create your paradise here only. You hatch your fresh religion. You create a reality that is in divine sync with the teachings of mystics, sages and the ones whom we worship as gods. 

Why wait to die for all this, or postpone living, to be almost a walking dead body, in the hope of living in future or afterlife. The only religion of life is to live a meaningful and happy life. To live by choices that enable us to actualise the potential to enhance our perspectives, create more meaningful purposes, contrive models of living that aid the fabulous expansion of life all around, to wade through the busy thoroughfair with a soft smile, to muse over grains in the fist as well as the ones slipping out of our grasp. 

Gods and paradise are better left alone in peace. The paradise must be crammed to the ceilings because there have been billions who chose to suffer on earth to get a ticket to paradise. Why be in such a hurry to join an overcrowded place. Our little earth still has a lot of spaces left for love and laughter to bloom fully. All we need is just to realign and reshape this life.

The pleasure of pressure

 Life is like a rubber string. It’s dead and limp without any stretching, taut tension in it. So guys if u feel stretched just enjoy the pleasant pull because that simply proves your lifefully throbbing status. We can enjoy this string-walk as long as there is tensioned tautness under our toe-hold. The pull and tension gone, we just crash-land and turn maggot feed. But tension under our toes is one thing, tension on face is quite another. We just have to be careful during the rope-walk. Later on we can even learn to smile while walking carefully on the rope.

Web weavers

 You always need new angels in your life, or rather we turn ordinary people into angels to fill the vacuum in our life, to rub off the slate and make it clean of the image of the former Angel-turned-dark angel-cum-demon. Our mind is a very suitable instrument to create new realities. We are very innovative with our justification for this dusting, cleaning job. Well, human mind is a wonder indeed. No wonder, we have so many parallel realities. A kind of complex web. Like spiders weaving web to catch prey. But spiders are better weavers than us because they don't get caught in their own weaving generally. While we get tangled in our own yarn usually. So fellers, keep your web simple. It's difficult to walk out of it.

The pride of naked nativism

Railways, airways, ships, computers, television, bra, lipstick, tops, sandals, phones, judiciary, administration, hill stations, cricket, political system, business,  commerce, almost everything around has roots in colonialism and the society of colonisers. Discard all that first, only then your naked nativism will have any legitimacy. But I was wondering what would be left then. Only false pride in naked bodies would be left perhaps. 

A,simple Jat cricketer was lamenting that Team India should be named Team भारत because the word India is rooted in colonialism. Poor chap, little did he realise that the game that earned him millions was started by the colonisers themselves. So now people are throwing bouncers at him, asking him and other prpogators of new-brand Nationalism to stop playing cricket altogether. Boycott 'India' would boil down to boycot 'cricket'. And if cricket is gone, half of India will die of boredom. 

Lekin agar har ek angrezi cheez ka boycot karoge to nange ho jaoge. Aage ki taraf dekho nahi to muh ke bal giroge.

Musings on a September morning

 Drinking is a peculiar thing. I mean when the liquor takes the driving seat in one's persona. I have seen mammoth men turning to bleating lambs after getting sloshed. They would topple a bull on impulse when not drunk. But drinking brings out the cute, peaceful,  all loving lamb in them and they would give everyone hugs of love. 

In contrast, I have seen wiry faint hearted men turning to roaring lions after the liquor takes the possession of their driving seat. In normal condition they would compete with the cowardest jackal on earth in being lily livered. But let the alcohol pump courage into them and they feel like stopping a train by force by standing in front of it. 

It means a stone has a petalous spot hidden somewhere in its hard muscles and a petal has stony semblance inside the mushy softness. Moral of the story is: never rule out any possibility or potential in anyone.

***

Fluctuations...sometimes I feel a very very old person, sometimes just a newborn, other times just like I'm yet to be born, sometimes as if I'm no more here, sometimes everywhere, sometimes nowhere, sometimes a holy being, sometimes a sinner...there are times when I have shot out of the bodily confines like a rocket and tasted the boundless...there are times when I feel like an immovable stone imprisoned in this worldly identity...the waves of egoistic stamp on the vast canvas of the sea. Let the tidal waves surge back and forth ... it's just the ocean's way of reminding itself that it exists.

A tiny bird’s little fountain

 

It's been a dry August and now September sun carries extra heat. The plants and trees need water. They droop their leaves to convey in sign language that we are thirsty. So there we have water flowing around their feet. The pipe carries a tiny crack forming a little fountain. Not much in human terms but a substantial funbathing spot for tiny oriental white eyes. They are very small green birds with a white ring around their eyes. I'm reading a newspaper going slowly around the tiny fountain. Then I realise I'm already an intruder. I hear complaining trills of innocent notes above my head. They are shy and want me out of their bathing place. Oriental white eyes love bathing under little squirts of water from garden pipes. The intruder off the scene and here they jump with joy and go for funbathing on a hot noon. It's a busy world. We are now running to grab our portion of the skies in the cosmos. Among all this pandemonium for bigger stakes, I think a tiny bird also deserves her little fountain to beat the heat with a shower.

The story of a wounded tree and his friend

 

We are a  monetizing species. We just cannot help putting economic value on whatever we come across. Earlier we would hunt for gold and other materials from the guts of earth. Then the desire shot through the ceiling and now we hunt for sand with as much seriousness like we did seek gold earlier. Sand is needed for the non-stop build-up to cater to our booming population and economies.

The 40-50 feet wide ribbon of wilderness between the two canals running parallel across the countryside would have a ribbon of wilderness. Desilting of the canals left a thick bedding of sand upon which trees, bushes, plants and grasses ran to take possession—free nature running to grab whatever sinewy pathways are available for its solitude serenade.

Walking for kilometers on the little footpath running through this untrampled part would give me the feel of walking through a silent forest. Majestic banyans, peepuls, jamuns, eucalyptus, a few silk cotton trees, wild flowers and bushes would shower me with greetings as they would do to any of the plenty of snakes hiding among these last hideouts.

I am walking on the same path now. It has been cleared. Sand is very precious now, almost new age gold. And sand mafia—just a front player for the invisible political-bureaucratic nexus—has taken truckloads of sand. The mighty earthmovers cut through the ribbon of wilderness to claw out gleaming fertile sands that have travelled from the Himalayas with the canal waters. The grasses, bushes, plants and wild flowers are gone. Just big trees are standing. They are big enough to somehow come out alive after the onslaught in the darkness. But they bear the marks of injuries and cuts and wounds. The greedy talons of the earthmovers would try to scrape every particle of dust from around them thus cutting their roots, bruising their barks, damaging the trunks. So as I walk on the bare sand on the broad avenue only big trees stand with their cuts and wounds.

The sand mafia is very powerful. It’s the corrupt governmental machinery’s invisible hand that works with legalized criminality in the dark of night. Heavy trucks and earthmovers work overnight carting away precious sand—gold like precious. You hardly have any say against them. Where will you go and complain? The place where you are supposed to go for redressal of your grievance is the very same place that is authorizing all this in the dark of night. The nighttime criminality is too strong for any feeble daytime legal action. I know all this and know the inevitability of things ultimately going the way as they open up before me.

I walk with sadness looking at the wounded barks, bruised trunks and bashed up roots of the trees still holding their balance. Sand is more precious than the trees. Maybe the oxygen-selling industry is waiting with gloating glee for a time when all the trees will be gone and they will monetize it as an economic model by selling oxygen just like now we have bottled waters once the drinkable waters vanished from the streams.

The huge silk cotton tree beckons me with its smile of pain and agony. They have taken away all the sand around its roots, cutting some major roots in the effort. It takes many years for mother earth to bloom such a majestic tree. It’s a big one. I remember its flowery welcome with its big red flowers during the winters. One had playfully dropped straight on my head as I walked under it lost in my poetic muse. A big, juicy, red bouquet of welcome as if the tree wanted to remind me hey how can you pass without appreciating all the dollops of beauty hanging on my majestic canopy. It was a beautiful sight. Red blooms covering a portion of the sky above my hand. After that the tree felt like a friend and whenever I passed under it I wouldn’t forget to give it a handshake by touching its trunk.

The friend is now wounded after the night battles for sand. It stands with agony. All the supporting sand is gone and a few main roots gone. It seems as if an angry shove of wind will see it falling in the battle against the mankind. All I can do is to place a healing palm against its bruised bark and seek forgiveness from the side of we humans.

        My tree friend wounded after the nighttime battle with the sand mafia

I am not a revolutionary. I am a poetic man who feels their pain. I know everything is futile against the darker actors. They are too strong. So I do what I can do. I reach the tree in the evening with a spade and with my poetic hands slowly start doing the work of a farmer. Do it—however small is your capacity—if you feel something wrong has been committed somewhere. Sermonizing and vain poetics won’t help. I begin putting sand around the tree slowly covering its exposed guts. It’s a tough work for those who aren’t into routine farming work. But I’m surprised that I’m managing it pretty decently. As the dusk starts building up and moon rises to give me company, I feel as if the tree is absorbing the thick swabs of exhaustion from my body. Believe me I could feel it. I worked for almost two hours and there is the friendly tree with its wounds dressed up. It looks happy now.

                             A little dressing done by the wounded tree's friend

I leave a gentle reminder for the sand mafia who will be arriving during the night. It’s a scrawling on a cardboard piece; an appeal by the tree that please leave some sand for me also. I know they will angrily tear it away. But at least the tree has a right to voice its case. I fix the appeal on its trunk and leave with a little less sad smile this time because my tree friend is waving a bit less agonized goodnight.

            The tree's gentle reminder to the sand mafia that will arrive at night

I am not sharing this little story just to get three or four likes from virtual friends whom I haven’t even met. That hardly matters to me, and shouldn’t matter to anyone in fact. It’s just done with an intention to be the voice of a tree’s agony. The message is more important. It’s done with a hope that someone else too will take a little step under the same circumstances. And that spadework seems more satisfying than writing an entire book. We have to do whatever little we can do if we feel the need. Because that’s our own emotion. No one else is liable to it. It’s our own duty to act. However small it might be.

    

A bike ride

 I'm going on my old bike. It was there when I was in college and was a suitable partner in a few typical youthful follies. But that was then and now is now. Both of us are rusted and greying fellows with the shine of wisdom seeping inside. 

A big truck has collapsed leaving a narrow passage for the vehicles from both sides. There is a young man struggling to maintain his vertical. Vehicles have to crawl to pass through the narrow opening. He means to have a lift. Who would give a lift to someone who can barely stand. An old tauji almost kicked him away shouting, 'You will fall from my scooter and die if I give you a lift!'. And now I find him almost slumped over my bike's handle pleading for a pillion ride. I repeat the old man's retort that I just heard. 

Who says perfectly sloshed men are out of their senses? He can at least smell the feeble traces of humanity in me. Some vibes, the way I speak or look or whatever. He must have felt that I carry the maximum probability of allowing him to get onto the bike. Before I realise he has marvelously heaved himself for a sloshed out pillion ride on my vehicle.

A snake has the instinct to bite. A farmer's first instinct in such cases would be to slap at least. I carry the same farming blood. So the first instinct is to give him a backhanded smash on the face. But then I have been trying to convince myself that I'm on the path of spirituality and the people on the path don't react, they respond. So I take a huge gulp of anger down my throat. The effort nearly chokes me, because anger directed into the guts literally shakes you up. With my anger thrashing my gut now, I try to talk him out of his dangerous plan to ride pillion in such a state. We are both putting our respective cases, me in irritated tones and he in slurred, pleading humanity-arising notes. The passage is blocked. A fat man is dying to reach his house -- most probably to get thrashed by his wife -- and honks his car horn very madly, 'O hello, you two, resolve your issues somewhere else. Why block the path?' Both of us give him a very angry look and to make his blood boil a bit more I prolong my arguments in the drunken case. But then many horns are honking so I have to move my vehicle with a load that is swaying in all directions. 

I stop at a distance by the side but he is already feeling safe, all secure, holding my back and almost slumped over my shoulder. I remind him that if I allow him a ride on my bike he will surely fall and get crushed under some incoming vehicle. 

Now he is crying. Fresh, salty, warm human tears on my shoulder. 'Koi kisi ka nahi hai brother. Sab matlabi hain. Only you are a real good man!' he muttered holding me to avoid a fall. How can you act against humanity if someone has just declared you to be the gem of a person? So I move with utmost caution, at a very slow speed, just by the road's edge so that he doesn't get crushed under a passing tyre if he falls. He sways like a long, thin eucalyptus sways to the wind. All this while he is muttering, 'Diamong hai diamond. ..this brother of mine!' I was lucky to drop him safe at the place of his choice. He walked a few tottering steps and then sprawled himself on earth, the ultimate bed. Maybe taking rest before hatching a plot to get another pillion ride. A young man, soiled clothes on account of dusty tumbles due to inebriated senses, out of the driving seat of his life. It was a sad affair. Very sad. I moved on with a little resigned shake of my head. The government knows drinking destroys countless lives. But then the liquor industry pays billions in taxes so the government is happy with the affairs. And then it's for people like me to carry dead drunk citizens to their destination.