The workshop within

 How will you even touch someone softly if you haven’t felt the gentility of your own fingers on your skin? How will you even offer a smile to someone if you haven’t showered your own smiles at the representative of divinity, you true self, within you? How will you embrace someone if you haven’t given a warming bear hug to your soul like a beloved? How will you even touch someone’s life in a healing way unless you haven’t healed your own invisible scars? How will you make someone joyful if you haven’t enjoyed its treasures first? How will you understand someone’s pain unless you have understood the value of your own tears? Charity begins at home. All this has to start from one’s own dear self. Till then whatever we do in the name of all the gifts mentioned above is nothing but a lip service, a theory without experiential reality, a mere pretense to fulfill a duty, or even facelift measures to beat our own weakness, fear, insecurities. Others are just an extension of this very own self. So it’s better to start with the self, the nearest source to experiment all these truths and then build upon the larger scale.

A suitable distance and noble proximity

The inspirer of lovers and the innocent muse of little children, the moon is always there in its orbit around earth. We expect it to be there after dark nights, its crescent first increasing then decreasing. How come it’s able to fulfill its natural duty with such unerring precision? It’s born of centripetal and centrifugal forces, the forces of opposing nature. The centripetal force of earth, born of its gravity, pulling the moon towards it; the centrifugal force, the outward force on moon when it rotates, saving it from crashing into the earth due to the its gravitational force. Perfect balance, harmony and precision!

The same is the connection between two humans, be it business partnerships, matrimonial alliance, friendship, communication or any situation involving a connection between two human beings. There has to be gravitational pull, the attraction. This attraction is born of our hopes, expectations, insecurities, vulnerabilities, strengths, weaknesses, dreams and aspirations. But the pull can be really hard. It sees us crashing into each other as if the other person is the last salvation point. We forget that he/she is also a human being with similar strengths and weaknesses. Then follows the pain, dilemma, blame and even suffering as we try to free ourselves from the other person, feeling suffocated, our sacred self violated, our sense of freedom jeopardized.

How to keep moving safely at an optimum distance in the trajectory of any type of relationship? We have to maintain the pull, but too strong a pull will see us being sucked into the privacy and vulnerability zone of the other person. Similarly, the outward-bound centrifugal force of testing incidents and situations will try to pull us apart, pulling us against the forces of attraction. It’s always there to make people fall apart because without it the force of attraction has no meaning.

It’s only the see-saw balance between these opposing forces that sees an object moving in a safe orbit about another body. Similarly, it’s the attraction and the challenges to that attraction that make the trajectory of a relationship between two humans dynamic in nature. It gives it mobility. The mobility makes it a journey. And the journeys are meant to make us learn lessons, to evolve and be wiser. Wise people know the importance of love, kindness, care and share.

So all you people there, be careful in your role of a friend, partner, husband, wife, colleague. Maintain the attraction but don’t allow it to pull you too much into the inner sanctified zone of the object of your attraction. Don’t simply fall over people, making them feel burdened with you. Respect that inviolable individuality in a person. At the same time, don’t allow the outward-bound forces to break the fragile bond of attraction and fly you away into the unknown, out of the trajectory of that person. Don’t be too far. Don’t be too near either. Keep a teasing distance to keep it fresh and alive. Too much of intimacy and too much of space are both bad for a relationship. Harmony is the product of a balanced equation.

With some space in between, each of the two persons can feel comfortable and can see the other in true light. We need some space to watch, to witness, to appreciate, to note weaknesses and thus guide and give support. If we crash into each other, with too much intimacy, it somehow disturbs the sacred individuality of the person. Then we see a blurred picture of the other person because he/she has crossed the zone of observance, comfort and bonhomie. It turns into a transgression. That’s why two persons, who might be almost perfect to others outside, after coming into too proximity get confused about their respective identities, make it complex and then find themselves almost intolerable to each other. They take each other as transgressors.  

This cosmic law holds even supermassive galaxies in balance. Human relations are a cakewalk for its application. So hold hands softly, don’t crush; embrace gently, don’t squeeze; softly brace, don’t clutch; speak gently, don’t shout; hold talks, not debates; make love, not just violent lust; just smile, don’t snort; listen and make your point; laugh and make her laugh; gently support but slowly undo the dependencies; don’t lead or follow, just walk together; hold hands but not pull him/her into your direction, walk on a common path. These are the little tools to maintain that sacred space between two humans.

So there has to a sacred space in between, the space defined by healthy attraction, which is just sufficient to undo the outward forces of distraction. Not too near; not too far. At a perfect distance. If we meet each other at this perfect distance, we too can keep revolving around each other in an optimum trajectory for a long time.   

The seekers of truth

Mahatma Gandhi said: "The seeker after truth should be humbler than the dust. The world crushes the dust under its feet, but the seeker after truth should be so humble himself that even the dust could crush him. Only then, and not till then, will he have a glimpse of Truth."

It's such a beautiful statement. This humbling melts the rigidities in us, the cold hard blocks that prevent a free flow of the self, putting us out of sync with life. And in the absence of a free flow, we get stuck up at a place, in a particular situation, in the past memories, in negative emotions. We negate life. We become rigid, lose our vulnerabilities, our softness. We take up a stern visage as a defense mechanism. The things, people and situations that take a little strike at our rigid opinionated self, our ego construction, are nothing but humbling tools, to break the wrong edges in us, to reshape us, to mellow us, to help us flow, to get as near to truth as possible. Keep flowing. Flow is evolution. And stay open to any chance of getting humbled. They are blessings in disguise.

Subtle dangers to democracy

 The recent trends in Indian politics are very disturbing. The present government says their goal is Congress-free India. Now can you visualize a democracy without opposition? A political system without effective opposition is as good as autocracy.

Let’s try to understand it through a true story about Chinese premier Mao Zedong. The all-powerful leader ordered his subjects to kill sparrows so that they won’t eat grains in the fields and thus there would be more grains for human consumption. The people treated him as a God and on his instructions the entire Chinese human population turned enemies of poor little sparrows. So the sparrows vanished from the Chinese skies. A sparrow-free China it became. But they had forgotten that sparrows don’t eat just grains, they eat pests and harmful insects as well. So with the predators gone, the pests and insects reigned supreme and chucked out entire croplands. It resulted in a terrible famine that lasted for three years.

Similarly, if opposition, that is Congress, is chucked out of the political system, the pests and bugs of predatory tendency to misuse and manipulate power will chuck out our democracy. A healthy opposition is a predator for the bugs and pests of autocracy. The government has to understand that Congress doesn’t merely eat their parliamentary seats; it eats the pests of autocracy as well. The government is legitimate in its efforts to come to power again in 2024 but why shout ‘Congress-free Bharat’. Say we will defeat Congress. If you openly declare that you want to finish the opposition, it only means you want to run this country as an autocrat.

The hallmark of a true democracy is the reach of law and ethical principles followed by the leadership that enable either the law to act or enable a leader’s conscience to step down in case of infringement of duties or any other inappropriate behavior. A lockdown-time little private party cost Boris Johnson his British premier position. Can you imagine anything like this in India? Here the grossest transgressions of duties and misuse of power by the politicians are treated as routine affairs. When there is no fear of the card-castle falling apart in case of the slighted mischief with cards, those in power will take their positions for granted.

Sadly, there are many instances when cloud-piercing cries of genuine suffering go reverberating across the corridors of power and fall on deaf ears. The main reason being that they emanate from poor people’s mouths. And there are so many instances when real thugs, ruffians and rascals are seen getting victoriously crowned after manipulating and hijacking the system in an apparently legalized and institutionalized manner. There are episodes where your soul suffers nightmarish convulsions witnessing the manipulation of the system by the strong, wealthy and powerful. Their eyes shine with a malevolent, piercing sense of pleasure in bypassing the norms and your helpless guts give a disgusting constriction. You feel so helpless. All you can do is to watch in a severely sustained silence.

The show of power is still a frightful lot in the country. And the strongmen of the game, through their titillating tutelage, nurture a cringing breed of yesmen who handover the consequences of misused power to those lower in stature to them.  

There a lockdown-time party can see a prime minister bowing out; here even serious allegations of sexual harassment won’t budge a parliamentarian from his powerful seat. We have a lot of work to accomplish to be a real, strong democracy.

In a really strong democracy, the strongest of the strong can be taken to the dock in case of stepping over the laws. Take America for example. Their ex-president is being put into the dock for official mismanagement and discrepancies. It can happen only in a strong democracy, where official institutions are bigger than individuals occupying constitutional posts. America rules this world because they are the strongest democracy on earth. We are of course the largest democracy but the quality of democracy needs a vast amount of improvement. Here individual leaders are bigger than the seats they occupy. It creates two categories of justice: one for the privileged and the other for the common people.

Yes, we are a constitutional democracy on paper in every sense of the term. But in practice we are missing a lot from the great principles in our brilliant constitution. It will take some time to get a leadership that follows ethical principles and listens to conscience, and institutions and authorities independent enough to penalize even the strongest. I would say we are a work in progress as a democracy which is a good thing and far better than autocracies and pseudo democracies like Pakistan where there is a shadowy deep state pulling the strings. I firmly believe that there will be a day when we will be world’s strongest democracy as well, not just the largest. The strongest democracy is the benchmark where the most powerful is under the same chance of penalization as the weakest in case of falling off the lawful limits.

Slow-paced pleasure of some silent moments

 The world around you changes once a babbler makes a nest in your garden. They are very assertive in defending their territory. I’m spraying water on jungle geranium as a kind of bonus gift to it because it has blossomed really well even in this heat. An almost permanent shade of the parijat above has worked in its favor. I water it twice a day and it has made the most of it. It’s a pleasant sight to look at its bulbs of soft pink. These are tiny clusters of flowers forming big laddoo-sized bouquets. It’s a beautiful pattern, almost exotic and challengingly intricate. It’s a decorously contoured, captivating flower, a visual delight. Each bulb comprises a cluster of small, tubular blossoms which densely populate the inflorescence. The individual flowers are very small in size, just measuring about one to two inches in diameter. But their beauty lies in unity, holding together in illumined integrity. They grow closely together and form a rounded shape, presenting the stunning visual impact of a single big bulb of flower. You feel proud to have helped in creating such blossoms. These are visually very interesting flowers having intricate streaks and patterns, carrying unique swathes of aesthetics. They look inviting with their exotic appeal.

As I sprinkle water over the flowers and the glossy green oblong leaves, inhaling the tropical aroma, a babbler has some serious issue. In my flowery reverie I have stepped near a little puddle of water formed on the uneven cemented bricks in the yard. It must have been drinking water there and I inadvertently disturbed it. There it starts with a long chain of tart, stinging words. If you have the lung power to out-babble them you can assert your rights. But I have to give in to this perennial dissenter. My mailbox is full of recent rejections so I am in no mood to fight. I try though, in slight irritation. I turn the water pipe in its direction and give it a mild shower to cool it down. But that makes it outright abusive. I simply move away, why get into arguments with foul-mouthed guys. It proudly hops and reclaims its puddle and takes sips of victory by turning its neck sideways so that its beak gets a slant enabling it to scoop some water with each effort. It looks even angrier with its side-long white-rimmed look. I move further away.

The wire-tailed swallow couple is sitting at exactly the same spot on the wire. It’s a love-spot for them. They take a view of the courtyard with a sort of miscellaneous muse.

I have minimized honeybee casualties by putting dry leaves and light dry twigs on the water surface in the bucket. After taking a tumble in the water most of them swim to safety to the nearest point.

The flower in the wall crack is facing the toughest test. It has shed its leaves as homage to the fiery summers, sparing just a few leaves at the top as a mark of life and its ongoing fight. I sprinkle a bit of water over the crack twice a day and that keeps it going. It has to hang on till the monsoons return. Just a matter of one moth I suppose.

The ants have made their hole bigger and there is a little heap of sand, the dredge of their mining effort, on the clean cemented brick where they have drilled a hole. All and sundry need a pucca house these days. It’s a busy world with cascading ambitions.

Curry leaf tree, the beloved culinary plant with aromatic leaves. It is laden with small, delicate flowers growing in clusters called panicles. Each panicle comprises numerous individual flowers densely populating the inflorescence. Each gust of wind results in a drizzle of almost countless tiny petals measuring a few millimeters in size. The florescence is so dense that despite a continuous drizzle of tiny petals still there is enough for the bees, stinging wasps and creamy white little butterflies to go feasting through the day. Tiny star-shaped individual blooms harken the sappers. They emit a sweet, gently floral scent that wafts with the winds and carries its sweet invitation.

Far away from the tumultuous trajectories of the bigger world, it’s my little corner crowned with an unadulterated halo; of little sounds and long silences; of rosy radiance and reverberating bliss. A little world taking me into the pools of seductive withdrawal. There was a time when I tried to fit into the piercingly gibberish mainstream. Very soon I realized that I am one of the fringe folks. And frayed, frazzled and fatigued, no longer able to bear the shadowy overtures of the thoroughfare, carrying sore stabs of the feeling of victimization, sobbing tempests buzzing in my ears, I walked into the embracing folds of my little private world. It healed the scars on my soul. Far away from fictitious championing, I just try to be my real self, a tiny self going in sync with small-small happenings in my tiny corner. 

Life

 Why should winning be just defined by finishing the line ahead of others? Finishing the line with your best, even if it means coming last in the list, is also a win. And beyond finishing, the will to touch the line, even if you fall on the way, is a win. Further, even the will to participate is a win. And if you don’t participate at all and do something else that also is winning. Why talk of defeats? It’s winning-winning all the way, in one form or the other; because to be alive itself is a win. The breath that you take now is your triumph, your trophy, a result of your body’s collective heave to help you keep carrying your journey, the crowned crest of the will to continue on its journey. This step you take now is a journey. Life is a winsome game in totality. Count all your missteps, follies, cloud-piercing cries, disasters, tragedies and pains. Add them. However high is the sum, it will still fall short of nullifying the big positive number—life, a soft smile. Life divine drawn and painted in its celestial contours. Life bound together with mystic strands and syncretic synergy. You all are winners I tell you.

Fusillade of the furtive flautist

As the furtive flautist goes raising dust on the path of time with his rag-tag show, many a petite songstress loses their songs and melodies. The forests turn quiet and a silence reigns with its unabashedly parochial throbbing. Mother nature looks a travel-worn sailor not able to recall or even imagine pure mythological horizons of the past, a wonderfully wild past with its generic sacredness. Then one species rose supreme with its sadistic leer. With clockwork precision it lugged it out and lugged it in by scattering the deviants of its overworking brain. The forests vanished and devolved into potted plants. Spring sunshine and lovely desert nights encradling sand and stars became one and the same.

There is an incessant face-off between mankind and nature. We are the new gods with our particular perceptions and selective denunciations. The new god sordidly swarming over everything in its path. And its deeds almost a devilish enclosure for mother nature. The disciple that started with a rudderless reverence to the original god and then passing through dark doorways declared himself to be the new godly sovereign. We are too big a source of change on this little planet. The force of our hand is visible through rampant global warming, furious tornados, forest fires, poisoned air and polluted seas. The forces of evolution have gone into a tizzy. The wheel of evolution is spinning too fast. Many species are in a desperate spell of adaption and evolution to extend their survival for some more time. But that seems futile in the face of massively changed environment.

In a matter of around 150 years, the beak size of Australian parrots has grown by 4-10 percent. All this is to cope up with the increased heat. In a matter of just half a century, the wings of round-leaf bats have increased by one percent. In a short span we have now larger billed finches adapting to survive in hotter climate. Larger beaks help them to dissipate excess heat. Brightly colorful butterfly fish are usually aggressive in the seas. They stoutly defend their territory with a squirming valor. Now they are becoming less aggressive. This is due to the menace of coral bleaching going at a big scale. They are less on calories and that turns them docile. You need a lot of energy to fuel your aggression and territorial ambitions.

In warmer Alaskan regions now more berries ripen and the bears eat more of berries than salmons. As a result they turn lethargic and plump. It needs less effort in feasting upon berries than chasing salmons. Who is interested in unavailing ransackings and flunging forth for slippery agile preys when you have unmoving berries harking your attention? There was a time when in the subarctic region one’s next door neighbor was many miles up or down the line. Now there are harassing hundreds every square mile and our footprints write title deeds of ownerships in every nook corner of the icy wilderness.

The conditions have turned windier and stormier, so a lizard named Anoleshas now has bigger toepads and more muscular front legs to cling onto survival chances among the terribly shaken vegetation. To beat hurricanes you need stronger toepads.

Ever lost in our maneuvering mists, we have unleashed evolve-or-perish situation for scores of species. Of course, most of the species won’t be able to keep pace with such highly accelerated evolution rates and would become extinct in the coming decades.

In response to the changing sea water temperatures, squids are now coming of age faster and changing their food pattern.

Galgapos finches are adding to their beak size. Small beaks mean less chances of survival in a boiling world.

Turtle hatching in warmer seas results in more females. With warming seas we will have almost many hundreds of females for a male. So rising temperatures are now determining sex in the species.

It seems a gloomy tale. However, let’s make the most of what is still left—aesthetically.

The regalia of old age

So he, the regal old man, embracing his age with fragile but tight grip, lives happily as the tail-end of a great life lived. He has weathered the tempests of youth: the force of beginning, starting and acceleration! And now the path of letting it go; losing the pace slowly, gracefully, receptively. The deceleration.  Slowing down with effortless muse. To stop finally. It gives him as much excitement as the force of starting. And then the final rest. Now, during the slowing down phase, his time has become slow, the world is a small puddle around his feet. He lives like in a dream. A slow-paced one, minutes stretched like hours, days like weeks, weeks like months, months like years. In slowing down gracefully, effortlessly, he lives equal to a dozen lives lived in the beginning mode.

He enjoyed the choices which fate sieved for him. Just grabbed his share. Now he picks up and plays among those things and coarse, discarded chaff which remain unwanted above as the fine particles, much in demand, trickle below. But it’s great fun, he tells with mischievous gusto: 

“In youth, we just think that life means rolling in the sieve’s fine brew. But life can be equally enjoyable among the discarded heap, little malformed grains, sand-grains, specks and chaff. Now I roll like a child in the rubble of the past, which was once waylaid by the youth’s blast. It is now the precious wealth of my old age. Mellows down the rage in this haze. There aren’t any takers for it now. So I enjoy it alone, without that competitive drone.” 

The old reveler, away from the fire, cosily lying at the margin, where the faintest traces of warmth touch his old bones before moving into the cold darkness. 

The majestic slow down, as important and enjoyable as the headlong thrust of the beginning, the youth. The source, the beginning, and the slowdown, and the end. A cycle. Enjoy it!

The ease of being with common sense

 There is some manual task to be done. Rashe Ram is my first option for anything requiring physical labor. I try my chance to connect him over his phone number. As expected, the number is temporary out of service. He knows he doesn’t need a phone much. Due to his honesty in work, he is much in demand, so the labor seekers would book his services by launching a physical search and catching hold of him in person. And his secret girlfriends also know where to find him whenever he is needed for his lover’s duties, which is nothing more than a hurried plain mating even without having a word. In any case he is a man of few words.

The work involves some repairs in the street and we are gathered on the spot feeling not so good about not being able to avail the services of the best worker. Then someone informs that Rashe was recently picked up by the police for keeping 15 little pouches of ganja. We have just stopped talking about him and there comes Rashe Ram lumbering with his usual carefree air, unconcerned about the big issues in life. He is much hailed for his timely arrival.  

He shyly denies my question about the police episode. But when he sees that I’m serious about this quest he tells the truth. ‘I had bought 15 little pouches of ganja from Delhi for personal use. The village police informer passed the information to police. They picked me up. Kept me there for couple of hours. They collected all the pouches and took three thousand rupees to set me free.’ These are plain facts of his arrest. Their significance in his life is limited to their literal meaning. His is a mind unburdened of the polished maladies of overthinking, analysis and psychological traumas born of such an inconsequential happening.

‘You don’t keep phone these days? I tried but the number is out of service,’ I ask him. He has his tiny non-smartphone with him. It’s a new number he tells me. The old number? I threw away the chip in a nullah when the police were after me. We the clever people think it proper to take his new number in order to avail his labor services without delay in future. I ask my brother to note down his number because I don’t have my phone with me. He also is enjoying a phone-free time which seems a blessing, almost a vacation these days. Don’t we feel so relaxed when we step out of the house without the one tone psychological weight of the phone? My cousin brother is also having the same vacation. I ask the workers do they have a pen, which was a foolish query because their pockets would have beedies, matchbox, tobacco or ganja—the tools to beat the feeling of being disadvantaged in life by birth, the fate throwing them into poverty right from the beginning. We seem to be at loss of words about the daunting task regarding how to note down his number. With my amazing creative skills, I even think of writing it on the sand and then run home to take my phone before some cattle either pees or defecates on my earthen notebook.

‘Why don’t you just dial your number from my phone?’ Rashe softly drools with his slurred, soft, noble giant’s speech.

My software professional brother, still carrying the classy fragrance of a recent official trip to a developed country; my cousin brother carrying the high notes of confidence and youth becoming of an enthusiastic entrepreneur; and me the man with a library of books in the head—we have been caught on the wrong foot. Common sense seems to be too exclusive for our educated, smart selves. Caught on such a wrong foot of unawareness!

All three of us have an embarrassed laugh. It’s very humbling. A basic dose of common sense is all that we need to lead a happy life, to have a light mind unburdened of overthinking and hard-pressed by weighty issues. Many villagers are straightaway dismissive about Rashe Ram because he isn’t cunning and clever like the rest and this they interpret as being a dumb person. But in his unburdened mind he carries enough common sense to allow him a contended simple life.

The next day he is busy at the assigned task. It involves clearing a big heap of bricks, boughs, plastic and trash all jumbled together to form a nice century for reptiles and rodents. He is working relaxedly but I’m worried for him because many snakes have been seen around that place. I have already cautioned him multiple times about it but he seems to carry on without minding my words too much. Then my over-concern burdens his brain and he has to explain. ‘See, I have this stick with me. Didn’t you see that each time I put my hands to pick up something, I first prod the items with the stick so that the snake will crawl away,’ he slowly drawls. It again is so-so humbling. In my eagerness to spot some snake I had completely overlooked this simple man’s simple solution in dealing with the problem. Such a simple solution for a risky task! In his place my educated mind would have given me solutions like wearing knee-length jungle boots and gloves reaching armpits to deal with the problem. I stand corrected like a little boy standing in front of a stern headmaster.

The so-called common, simple, poor people have huge common sense in their unburdened minds to help them wade through the scores of daily challenges they have to face. I realize however high and mighty be our knowledge, we miss on little nuggets of common sense. But these are the little weapons in the hands of the common man to easily meet the routine challenges of life. 

A whisper for peace

 At the current rate of global warming, we will have ice-free summers in the Arctic in the next decade. The snows are drifting away from our planet. First it disappeared from the exotic peak of Mount Kilimanjaro in Africa. The glaciers are gasping under the heat. In the same series, the summer snows will vanish from the Arctic and so will the majestic polar bear. But for those who run this world it's almost a nonissue. Who cares for vanishing snows? Especially when there are wars to pacify individual and institutional egos, when there are more territories to grab, more mines to be dug into earth’s gut to take out the still remaining things of utility.

The modern Czar has burnt down an entire country in pursuit of impearlist dreams. Beautiful homes, lovely orchards and gardens have been charred by falling bombs and missiles. Homes have turned into rubble. Death and destruction is dancing freely in Ukraine. The ants, dogs, wild animals, homes, cities, gardens, agriculture farms all are charred to ghastly rubble of broken dreams and decaying humanity, while the Czar is going full throttle, creating present time hell to capture past glory.

Sadly, the mankind is ill-fated to live in disorder and strife. It seems to be in our genes. We abhor peace and harmony. To be human seems to be unruly, chaotic, aggressive and angry. We keep creating more and more chaos with modern inventions and discoveries. Power blocks and superpower aspirants are sharpening their swords to once again unleash blood and mayhem. Just like it’s been going for thousands of years. We seem to be under the curse of this self-destructive mind that keeps spinning out fears and phobias, prompting us to guard ourselves and attack others.

Despite all scientific advancement, we have the same archaic old malady of ego, violence, selfishness, hate and anger. Earlier we killed with stones and sticks. Now the same hate can annihilate entire earth by just pushing a button. What has changed? Nothing. It’s the very same fear, agony, insecurities and discontent. Modern civilization seems a pile of dry fodder to burn at mere sparks. All ready to defend themselves and grab more clout and influence. The plague of unrelenting ambition infecting each and everything; diseasing all from individuals to groups to nations to blocks. And a dying planet helplessly watches all this, sadly marveling at the species that got so ambitious to start chucking out its own house. A behemoth snake twisting and coiling to attack its own tail and devouring its own back from its front.

The air we inhale is poisoned, the food we eat is full of chemicals, the people we stay among have stressed, burnt-out minds, all ready to go blasting at the slightest provocation. The seas are polluted. The sea creatures die slowly. The polar ice melts. The polar bear takes last breaths. We too will meet the same fate if the way we run this world isn’t overhauled completely.

More missiles, more bombs, more jets, more hate, more anger, more greed. More noise while bird songs go achingly silent. What will be the outcome? Destruction. Strictly calculated from the scientific equation of input and output. Out of so much systematic hate only destruction can be the logical outcome.

Pristine forests vanished, beautiful birds became extinct, majestic animals went off the scene, and so did pure air, water and peace. On this dying planet, the natural physiology of the mankind will be unsustainable within a few decades. A weird semi-human, semi-machine species equipped with artificial intelligence will replace we the real flesh and blood ones. We have to take it as the game of evolution only. Take it any way but that’s how it will happen.

So as one of the last lucky generations to see blue skies, forests, streams and the free seas make the most of it. Cribbing won’t help. What’s done is done. Mother planet has suffered irreversible damage. So smile thou the last of real homo sapiens and make the most of what is left. Go into the forests and hug giant trees standing for centuries but won’t be there for long. Swim in the streams that aren’t stinking nullah yet. Inhale pure air in some solitary valley, keeping its secrets still intact somehow. Listen to the whispers of air that still has free oxygen.

And never forget to smile at people because they still are humans and would appear godly in comparison to the mechanized monsters of the next centuries. The new species will write our history then. It will be the sorry tale of a species that went extinct because of its inherent weakness to be stronger and stronger. But till then enjoy whatever little is left brothers and sisters. And let the angry leaders fight. They will fight come whatever it may.

The sage of bottom mud in a sea

 The sea cucumber fellow is a weird creature so much so that even the most laughable sea-dwelling guy would find him funny and worth cracking endless jokes. His face, if one can call it a face at all, is always stuck into the mud at the sea bottom. The guy with its clumsy courage got so busy in grazing the bottom mud that forgot to respirate through mouth or nostrils. So these vanished over the millennia and, as nature would have it, his other opening, rectum, began to function as a breathing hole as well apart from being the usual excreta dumping point, both functionalities operating with reasonable integrity. Call him a weirdo, a contrarian, a spirited non-conformist or anything sounding funny, he is perfectly unperturbed by all the dirty disclaimers flung around. He isn’t bothered. He would ignore gales of giggles and shivering squalls of laughter from those who stare at his bottom and stop to crack jokes.

As it funnily turns out, the same dumping-cum-breathing hole becomes a grand opening, an opportunity, for another creature.

Sea cucumber is like a gentle, snaily rock, all happy with its snout stuck in the mud. Hardly anyone is bothered about it. But the pearl fish cannot miss the opportunity. It’s a little fish. A docile slim thing, it’s always at risk from many predators. And like all those little ones facing risk from bigger predators, it’s looking for suitable hiding places. And the sea cucumber’s double functioning rectum comes to have third utility: the pearl fish’s hiding hole. The little fish houses itself for safety; a very interesting interlacing of fun and expertise.

Sometimes, a couple in love, shy and afraid of the big world out there, takes shelter in the opening provided by the non-objecting sea cucumber that is happy to enjoy its mystic innocence in the mud at the bottom. There they make love in perfect safety beyond the fiery incandescence of the game of survival. The sea cucumber is thus a slowly moving den for the pear fish lovelorn couple, a kind of love hotel, to hide and enjoy naughty moments. Wonders of nature: the rectum with a roomy rectitude to harbor soft, vibrant, seductive moments and space for another species.

The bottom of the sea is full of mysteries brimming with their dilapidated grandeur and we know just a little fraction of what all that goes unnoticed in the silent majesty under the turbulent surface full of crusading carousel, the survival game. 

Braving the hot winds

 The red-vented bulbul is a brave, noisy bird with lots of heads-on attitude. When the heat is at its peak in the afternoon, it sits grandiloquently on the dead boughs of the dry neem tree and bravely faces the sun. Maybe it challenges the sun to burn its wings. I have seen it in this position quite a few times. Or maybe it wants to get tanned to look handsomer. He looks a mystical comprehensor of strange realities, sitting under the hot afternoon sun, staring into the distances.

A swallowtail couple tried the feat on a nearby electricity wire. They looked a nice pair and much in love as they sat side by side, his tail wire prominent and hers barely visible. They gave competition to the sun-daring bulbul for some minutes but then the lady gave in to the heat. She flew away with a lovelorn song-girl’s quintessence. He too swooped and entailed her balmy beauty. I’m sure they flew away to chatter in the shade of some leafy tree. Lovebirds have better things to do than challenging a crazy bulbul on a hot afternoon. But the bulbul noticed their flight and taking it as his victory and their defeat gave a shriek of laughter.

As the loo sighs with its chauvinistic attributes and cruel determination, carrying pools of scorching heat to bake the village, the honeybees have to fetch water to save their larvae in the heat. It’s a busy bee-world around the water bucket in the yard. A lot many tumble into the water, many swim back to safety and many die. But they have to carry on. They live a collective life and that is the main reason of the survival of their colony. I try to keep the water level to the brims so that those who get a tumble into the water can swim back to the rim edge. It’s a happy sight to see them coming ashore, all panting, sloshed with water, their wings cutting the water like oars. They shake and flick their snouts and wings to dry themselves and get on with the mission.

I put some dry stalks and parijat leaves to make a floating life-saving platform for those who might not make it to the shore by themselves. The world will be sweeter with a few more honeybees around. Isn’t it? In the natural scheme of things, life and death may look a blind roll of dice on the board containing deft expressions of destiny, but it serves the purpose of mother nature if we create chances for life’s thriving, however minute it is. If you actually act to save an ant, bee or some insect, it’s highly probable that you will at least have empathy and kindness for bigger species including your fellow human beings. 

The sacred non-events of an ordinary life

 The spring was at its peak when I got these five saplings of different colored petunias. These are delicate flowers, vibrant but soft and vulnerable. They make the most of the spring here, spread big lollops of un-fragmented love, and fill many a gloomy yard, balcony and little garden with hopes and smiles.

The woman at the nursery won’t give false hopes. ‘They will flower for one month at the most,’ she said. ‘And sometimes for a few months,’ she added after some reflection. She is proven right. They are still there, not at their smiley best though. We have to understand. They cannot smile at their best in all this heat. They are under the merciless bombardment of sunrays till noon. They almost melt under the impact of the fiery sunrays and droop down like wax, the petals almost ready to turn fluid and go running as a colorful stream. But when the wall shadow comes over to give shade and a sip of life, they slowly come out of their fluidy slumber, regain life and smile through the pining evening and thirsty nights.

There is hot sighing loo whirling around with a statutory, dry, ill-humored brusqueness. It sucks moisture from everything around. These are summer flowers, long doing their duty since their prime during the short-lived spring. Septuagenarian flowers full of wisdom and deep meaning of life in their petalous eyes. They are faded, beaten, stunted and shrunk with age; old soldiers with their sagging, drooping bodies but with wisdom in their frail bones. And to me they are flamboyantly heroic. They seem proud to have long beaten their stipulated time. It’s a big assurance to have them just in front of my verandah, welcoming like a dot of fresh spring; spreading their smiles around holy tulsi mata they look like an offering to the holy plant. They complete the stage of my faith at dusk when I light a little sesame oil lamp under the tulsi.

The resident gecko that stays in the flowery world creeps out and waits patiently for some crazy parvana, the fabled moth, to come near his beloved shama, the flame. Then it sticks out its tongue and licks the lore of infatuated love.

Well, these are the sacred non-events of my ordinary life. They enable me to vaguely surmise the eternity’s magnitude. Have flowers in your life for they will make you genuinely, perennially prosperous. In a stiflingly smart world, ever trying to reach materialism’s apex, forever fanning a chaos around, buzzing and howling with excitement, the flowers stand as little symbols of pause, tiny smiling commas pointing to love, beauty and truth.

In pursuance of faith

 Why do we seek God’s guidance? Well, maybe because God is the titular summation of all the profound mysteries, glorious ambiguities, inexplicable vagaries, celestial certainties as well as uncertainties. So where else we the poor mortals ought to go for guidance? Unmanageable monstrosities somehow slacken their grip from our fears and insecurities due to the multidimensional inspiration of the symbol of the unknown, i.e., God. Even profoundly ideological presiding deities in sects and shrines pump real-time flesh and blood into our systems for action, reaction and enterprise. The idols thus become more real than the people around. The belief and willingness to accept the reality of God beyond the vague shadows allows the soul to enjoy delectable dance. Many times it fuels a burst of rapid creativity as well.

As a poet, painter, artist of any kind, crusader, leader or anyone else you set up a fine cornerstone around the mammoth palace of Godhood. With the light of faith in one’s eyes one can overlook the thorns of life lurking around and see and smile at a dew-jewelled rose. Faith has some deep foundations. It allows even the façade of our terminal afflictions and fakery to stand tall and allow us a sense of becoming something, the process that we call ‘life’. You don’t dread the dry rasping sandy blizzards even when the spring’s colors have been drained out. You see an oasis beyond the ribbed sand dunes. You come to feel the deep throbbing of life in your guts, above and beyond mere gastronomic sensitivities. You see, smell, touch, taste and hear something in a higher dimension, beyond the dimension of mere sense perception. Faith maybe is the soul itself, or maybe God itself. 

A trucker

 We started calling him Fauji just because his father was in the army. We were classmates at the village school from class one to ten. With the coming of age he became a trucker and was more than happy to go trucking across the vast swathes of this country.

Classmates share a special bonhomie. One may become a minister and the other a beggar but when they meet there is a deep touch, still a space in each other’s heart. Maybe spending the best time of one’s life together, that’s childhood, leaves a permanent mark of affection. It rules out class bullies here because we remember them with clenched fists. In any case they are an exception only.

Me and Fauji were hardly in touch but whenever we came across he would be pretty honest and open about life in general. ‘I joined as a truck helper just to have good times with the women who would signal by the road at night. I said “hello” to at least 1,000 of them. So when the time came for marriage I got the HIV test done three times to confirm I didn’t carry AIDS. Why spoil someone’s life for the fun you had solely in your own capacity?’ he sounded so honest. Aww, the very same childhood buddy not ashamed of sharing things!

He was lucky to have escaped the virus and is now happily married. A little bit down the rung from his first love, that’s women, he is in love with drinking. To be followed by smoking beedies. Wine, women and smoking: a pretty heady cocktail. ‘Just three pegs at night when I drive. Not more than that! Never!’ he looks convincing about this control.

A couple of years back he suffered a heart attack. A stent was implanted and the doctor gave a stern warning about smoking and drinking.

One more thing, he can put a horse to shame in giving a full-jawed grin. He has been doing it since as long as I can remember. It’s a yellowed smile. Maybe some toothpaste brand can use him as a model declaring if you don’t use our product even your 24-carat gold smile will fall short of copper or even iron. In any case, it’s another cocktail of smiles and laughter. He looks fitter than when I saw him two years back when he suffered the attack. Life situations have changed but his trademark grin-cum-laughter has remained the same. He greets me with the same welcoming grin. Strangers might take it as sarcastic but those who know him have reasons to take it as a friendly grin only. He is definitely fitter than when I saw him the last time after the surgery.

‘Just couple of beedies less and one peg more is the mantra of good health,’ he declares. ‘And lots of happiness inside,’ I add to his health formula. ‘Yes happiness also, he grins and I am amazed by the sight of his perfectly symmetrical pristine white teeth. Maybe some toothpaste maker can use the wonderful white shade, unaffected by culinary times, of his teeth to claim superiority in marketing. I thought he is using some wonderful paste to wash them so spotlessly clean. ‘And smile also,’ I say as a compliment to his blazing white grin. ‘Yes, smile and with fake set of teeth it’s even better,’ his grin has taken a very high point now, a type of euphoric proliferation. Well, now I knew his 32-carat brand new blazing smile-grin or grin-smile is fuelled by a set of artificial teeth.

But this guy is far more open and honest than scores of so-called better presented men—socially—who put a varnish over the gray shades insides. It’s wonderful to enjoy the exchange of fresh and old nuggets with one’s school days pal. 

African Nostalgia

 Almost fifteen years back I had the opportunity of spending some time in Africa. It’s a beautiful landmass with still more beautiful people, simple, elegant and very much close to nature; a world slightly off the nature-mankind crossroads. There mother nature is yet to be fully tamed by the mankind and that makes it an exotic land. There is a teasing tussle between the forces of nature and the human response to it, a kind of exorbitant ambiguity about life and living. All this makes this planet exotic in multilayered proportions; almost epical.

Platinum people and gold people, with rubies and pearls shining in their eyes, might see perfect heaven in the developed cities of the Western world but for a poetic soul the night’s slow-paced ambience, starry silence, palm-dotted misty verdancy are far more pricy than high-rise apartments, malls and swanky cars. To me the lost mists in pristine forests and scentless flowerbeds are far bigger losses than golden treasures. To me Africa with its hunger, its clear skies, its beautiful dark people with flashy smiles and its wildlife spins out a chequered legacy that will help the future poets weave their nostalgic fancies.

However, the sun at noontime shone so brightly overhead as if it would drill a hole in the scalp with a red-hot iron rod. Now looking at the atmosphere in the northern Indian plains here, when the temperature hovers dangerously close to 50°C, it reminds me of those African noons. And we are thousands of kilometers to the north on the globe. Do we still need to shout about the risks of global warming? It’s largely written all over the wall. It’s high time that we rein in our unchecked profligacy and expeditiously vicious ways in pursuit of our never-ending desires. 

A little chronicle of intimacies

 Old Taus and Tais would pour out their hearts to me. I have been lucky to listen to their very personal tales, the exciting chronicles of their youth. Dozens of old people from the village shared very personal stuff with me. For the sanctity of their trust, I would keep their names secret and call them Tau A, Tau B, Tai C, etc. I don’t think that even if I mention them by names there would be any big scandal. These are routine things in the countryside in the lives of the farming community. But still from my own code of conduct I should keep the identities secret. Most of them are gone and a few survive almost like God with that marvelous surrender and cool detachment. But it’s exciting to imagine that they were once warm-blooded with hormonal excitement. Further, you never know some semi-criminalized grandson of one of them might break the hand that writes about the histories of their forefathers.

I remember Tau A fondly retelling those glorious old days when society was simpler and the sense of brotherhood among clan members and extended families ruled supreme. ‘Those were real good days! Brothers shared a great bond. We tolerated very easily most of the things for which there would be bloodshed these days. See son, I would be out during winter nights irrigating the wheat crop and would return after midnight. And most of the time I saw my younger brother hurrying out of the quilt of my wife. I knew it. But I always pretended not to see it. Most of us pretended it and allowed the younger brothers to have good fun with our wives. Where would they go?’ he told it so easily in full flow without slightest inhibition.

I was pretty small then but I recall the episode pretty clearly. Tai B was telling the episode when intimacy was forced upon her by Tau C—good lord, was it the same Tau C who appeared so disciplined after joining an ashram during the old age. It was clearly a case of enforced intimacy but her hollow-cheeked laughter makes me feel that she had long forgiven if she carried any anger. ‘I was cutting fodder one noon. There wasn’t anyone around in the fields. He came very politely and asked me to help him tie his fodder bale. I followed him to the place where he indicated his fodder was lying. He kept saying a bit further into the furrows of tall Jowar. Then I found there was nothing to tie down. It was a ploy to untie…my cord. Once it started I thought there was no point in resisting. If it is so, then let it be! There were bigger issues for us to sort out than this. At least he wasn’t bad at it!’ she laughed nudging at the old ribs of another woman. All of them heartily laughed. ‘If it can be passed so casually, where would ‘rape’ fit in then?’ I wonder now. Well, it depends upon people’s own choice. It started without her consent but ended with her approval so much so that she compliments Tau C who is no more and must be feeling proud of his virility in the other world.

Tau D was too proud of his wee-wee. He would pretend to urinate when young women passed. Getting tongue-lashed was very normal for him. But then he ran out of luck and got more than a tongue-lashing. A Banjara woman—an audacious gypsy woman—hit the item of his pride with a mulberry switch. He nearly fainted. His flashing escapades withdrew. Maybe the concerned anatomical item withdrew into its shell after the strike.

Tai E was very liberal in the matters of intimacy and explored the groins of many farmers during her prime. Now all of them were drooping with age and fragile bones. I remember her as a petite woman. She wasn’t hesitant about publicly discussing how much milking she had performed on a particular bull. We remember her doing her duties till the fag end of her life as she would unabashedly visit an apish Tau F who seemed to be still active in his old age.

Tai G was more comfortable without her skirt than with it on. So we need not repeat the obvious. She was known for her rivalry with Tai E for the much-in-demand Tau F. He must have been a good bull for milking because everyone agreed that he was still active in his eighties.  

Tau H had lost his wife many years back and thus carried a big load of lust in his bulky body. In his late seventies he lunged at a chance to vent out all his pent-up lust. A middle aged Banjara woman was roaming in the streets asking fodder for their cattle. It was a hot noon. Tau H got her into the barn on the pretext of giving her fodder. He was successful in his mission. But he turned a miser at the time of payment. He had promised her a big bale of fodder and thought of duping her by giving just a little amount of wheat husk. I think he underestimated the audacity of these gypsy women. There she was shouting expletives at the top of her voice. The little amount of fodder was put in the streets and her top-voiced denouement of Tau H went sashaying across hot air. The people came out of their houses. ‘See-see, this is what this shameless oldie has given me! Just a fistful of fodder for all that devilish *** he gave me!’ she was shouting. She was putting up her stick to notify the measurement of Tau H’s endowment. So everyone came to know how much Tau H measured and what he did. ‘He is a cheater!’ she declared.   

The first and the last lady don of the entire area from our village, Tai I, can fill up entire chronicles full of her sex trafficking, robberies, charity, bride abduction, armed squad and much-much more. She ruled the prime land of Jat patriarchy during the thirties to the sixties of the last century. Those who were born after her demise still know her name. So that gives the idea of her popularity. I tried to gather material on her from the old men in the village. But they were all dismissive about her. It’s understandable because she had hit very hard on their wee-wee at a time when a woman was considered even lower than a buffalo in a farmer’s house. If I get enough material I plan to write a book on her sometime. Regarding intimacies, it’s understandable that she was far-far advanced than her times. 

Tai J turned out to be a pioneer in the art of intimacy. She was reputed to be very beautiful in her youth and carried faded traces of that charm even in her seventies. One of my classmates from the village school was eying her granddaughter. He was around fifteen at that time. He started visiting Tai J's house quite regularly. Tai J, experienced with age and full of wisdom, smelt the hormonal storm going inside the teenager for her granddaughter. As a wise matriarch she channelized the direction of the storm towards herself. The boy was expertly seduced and looked very happy during those days. Tai J looked even happier on having a lover of her grandson's age. I came to know about the reason of their happiness when only the old neighborhood dog and me were left out of its knowledge. He shared the information a few years back only. 'You didn't know? I thought only the cattle, dogs and cattle were out of the loop of this open-source knowledge!' he wondered when I shared that I never had any clue to this. Tai J carried the most contended smile among all the elderly women of her generation. In fact, I interpreted it as the smile of a sage. Now I know the worldly causes of the saintly smiles. God must have been very creative in fabricating such an interesting world. 

You are special

All of us are gifted. All of us are blessed. All of us are extraordinary. All of us are adorable to mother existence. With one condition attached—all of us are unique in all these blessings. But our senses are outer bound. We are looking at reality through what we see outside of us. That makes us forget all our unique gifts and blessings as individuals. Most of our pain and suffering is born of comparison of the self with others. We find ourselves in a hostile environment, surrounded by the superior or inferior competitors. Long before we realize, we are part of the rat race that is forever taking us away from the incomparable self. The comparisons widen as we move further on. Judgments—both for the self and others—creep in. We are then in a perceptibly hostile environment. And how will one feel at ease by staying in an apparent hostile environment? There is always threat, fear, anxiety. We are always on our toes. I know that we have to be part of the rat race to meet the basic necessities of life. We can do it if we always remember that all these are the means to an end. The end is one’s own self. So stay in the rat race but irrespective of what are the results always remember that you are unique. You are gifted, blessed and extraordinary. The moment we compare ourselves with others this blessed feeling vanishes. We have to practice to feel blessed, loved, gifted and extraordinary. Just telling the self all this on a regular basis will be sufficient.   

From the old book of wisdom

 These are the precious gleanings from old granny’s book of wisdom. Shining like golden letters on the placidly plastered dull surface of sweet-sour simplicity and teasing uncertainties of village life. They are not pricey things. They are age old but still wonderfully carry compellingly contemporary relevance. I sometimes use them and they come like reloaded revolutions against little nagging problems confronting we the common people. These are not the elements of super-reality. These are little faded diamond, emerald, onyx and jade of mother earth lying very close to the ground reality.

Put dry chili on clothes. It keeps away bugs. But be careful when you wear the clothes. The bug-guarding chili agents may take you as a bigger bug and strike where you are most vulnerable, eyes.

They say an onion under one’s armpit gets you fever. Students, during the punitive old schooling days, would look forward to it. I tried it a few times but failed to induce a fever. I carried bad smell in armpits though.

One can use turmeric as an antiseptic on one’s bruise. Maybe the bruise is deeper than mere skin. It will ease festering on the skin and that maybe will save the bruise from taking deep roots and get embedded in the bedrock of our ego.

Massage desi ghee or oil in your belly button, navel, to get well-hydrated, moisturized lips. The navel is a major junction of nerves. It was the door to our nourishment in mother’s womb. In spiritual practices it’s a key spot. So making it feel better with a gentle massage definitely spreads the strand of wellbeing across our self.

Some fruits that have met expiry dates in your estimation can be used as agarbatti stands. Who knows some of the lower gods, that’s the guardian angels, might take them as fruit offerings. Maybe they aren’t bothered about expiry dates because they operate in a dimension free of space and time differentials.

Cloves stuck in lemon slices repel mosquitoes. The mosquitoes cast almost an evil eye on our peace so lemon slices scare away the slick movements of bad luck aiming us through the dirty snout of a mosquito.

Use coconut husk for washing and scrubbing utensils. They are hard spongy fibers and come down heavily on the oily smudge on the kitchenware.

Toothpaste can be used for light burns and pimples. Why should the gums and teeth have all the fun? The pimples have their unclean teeth also. Toothpaste is handy for that. And when applied on the burn the coolness cleanses a lot of pain.

Rice water can be used to starch clothes. With starched white clothes you can have a feel of empowerment like powerful politicians do. You carry the smell of paddy with you and become a son of the soil. With the ‘son of the soil’ tag one can easily become a father of many destinies.

Squeeze orange peel into the eyes. I think it serves as a nice eye cleanser, especially those who don’t see the beauty in you. It’s a suitable eye-cleaning exercise to remove the debris from their vision.

It’s advisable to look for further opportunities—in terms of utility—which your fruits and vegetables seem to offer you. Why throw them immediately. Keep them for a couple of days. You may need them against unruly neighbors as catapults from the citadels of your balcony. 

Romancing with loneliness

The house carries a vulnerably wholesome air; carrying even some kind of spiritual underpinnings. There was plenty of love in the air for the lizard couples. As a proof of the deeds of the glamorous creepy lovebirds, dozens of tiny baby lizards are scampering across the house. One baby lizard made its territory around the stack of old newspapers in the verandah. It had its luck and would crawl out to take a nibble at some careless fly. It would then vanish around the paper stack, its castle. But sadly it ran out of luck or maybe the rockchat was luckier that day. As the ambience of a fly-topped breakfast came acalling, the little lizard crawled out of its castle and turned into the rockchat’s breakfast. We can say that even the fly was lucky that day because its predator became a prey. We must not forget that nature’s soft hand carries talons also. The rockchat couple that makes good use of the old, open countryside house, carrying an antiquated aura, is enjoying feasts of baby lizards these days.

The blistering heat and drowning humidity of June does wonders for the love appetite of koels. The female koel gives a rippling, tentative, anxious series of notes. The male is melodious, letting out sweetly cadenced notes as a proof of the effervescent authenticity of its eligibility and mating claims. Maybe males are more in demand in this species. A few lady koels are spreading monsoony, pining, lonely notes for the last few days.

The little room in a corner on the terrace is my writer’s hideout. It’s pretty hot inside during the summers. However, the solitude here makes up for all the heat-born discomforts. Life is only a few ‘plus’ things coupled with a few ‘minus’ at all points. For a lonely writer it’s a highly appropriate hideout. The room has a little verandah to protect against the sun and rain. There are not-in-use bulb holders and hooks on the walls. Many wire-tailed swallows fly in to inspect the site for their mud-nest. Then they peep in through the window and carefully observe the struggling writer inside sitting like an old recluse spider and fly away. Maybe they don’t find me suitable enough to be their neighbor. Once, when I happened to be away for some time, finding the room empty one couple started making their mud nest, drawing a muddy arc across the both ends of the bulbless holder. Construction work was in full swing when I arrived with my typical mankind disturbance. With an energy-exuding aura, they were enthusiastically ferrying mud in their beaks from the pond. But when they found that this fellow keeps sitting in the room looking at us all the time, they abandoned the project unfinished. The way we have tempered with mother nature, maybe our very presence evokes some illegal ingenuity against the natural laws.

In a verandah downstairs, the electricity meter has an iron box cover. There is an inviting doorway in the tin box for the electricity man to note down the meter reading. It seems a cozy house to many birds. Two sparrow couples are squabbling over the property. One of them would surely win the rights to own it for nesting. No problem in that. I’m impartial to their respective claims. But occupancy would mean they would stuff handfuls of grass into the meter box. To a sparrow couple their nest might appear ornately enchanting but from the human, and more so in case of an electricity meter, it would be a soggy mess. There may be a fire and the verandah might be smoke-suffused long before the hatchlings jingle with their frail chirps. So I cannot allow them the rights of this particular portion of the house. I fix a dark pink polybag over the box. It ruffles in the wind making an effective scarecrow, ‘scaresparrow’ sorry. One couple instantly leaves. I’m sure it’s the one that would have lost the rights to it anyway. The other couple shows more staying power. They make love on the nearby wire, staring at the pink house. They try to sneak in but the door has been closed so they fly away to seek a place somewhere else.