The big man's little story

 

Petha is a huge man, standing at 6’4” and weighing in the range of 120s in kilogram unit. He grew to be a mammoth lad in the senior secondary school. The potential was spotted by one of his teachers. She passionately introduced him in the art and craft of pacifying the basic instinct. He may not have bothered about any other element of schooling but this lesson he has followed to the core of his body. He hasn’t looked back since then.

Ask him the biographical summary of the last two decades. He answers with the sincerity of a student, ‘I have simply come very handy for the women looking for greener pastures!' As you can very well imagine, there are countless episodes of his amorous passion. It involves the college-going girl of a minister in Djibouti, a very loyal secretary-cum-housekeeper-cum-mistress Fatima, a few nurses, teachers, college girls, peasant women and scores of ladies belonging to the trade of dousing desires.

Then in Ethiopia, he enticed the daughter of a prominent Sikh farmer—from whom he had taken some land on lease for coffee plantation—which earned him a jail term of two years. The African jail was brutal. He survived only because he had too much weight which got cut to a normal 75 kilogram after the prison brutalities. Now in India he keeps a well-oiled stock of afeem to qualify as a brutal bull in the art of passion. He is regular with four or five women apart from giving his own wife every reason to feel contended in matrimony.

What would happen if you are forever excited and high on adrenaline? After all, human system has limitations. It’s not solely made for copulation as people like Petha believe. So now he has high blood pressure. I recommend walks and jogging. But he has all the remedies in copulatory terms. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. One encounter with a luscious woman amounts to two kilometers of walking. By this equation, I walk several miles each day!’ he gives me the consultation talk about this new form of walking by simply taking tumbles in the bed. His mathematics is a clear winner, so I accept his point of view and silently move ahead on my customary walk in the solitude of countryside.

The costliest wine

 Shyam Sunder and helper Bijender are repairing cracks in our old house. One day they work till late in the evening and get a bonus of 150 rupees meant to buy a bottle of desi liquor, their main incentive for extra work. They leave happily with the prospects of boozed-up relaxed moments after the daylong hard work. The next day, during a break, they are sitting on a bench side by side. ‘What is the cost, you can imagine, of the single peg of the costliest whisky?’ I asked. I had recently read about it in the papers and since then loved flummoxing the liquor lovers by baring the surprising fact. Shyam Sunder, the head brick layer, took a long-long draught at a beedi for inspiration and seriously deliberated over the question for a minute. ‘There are very rich people around. It must be around 10,000 rupees for a peg,’ he reached the end of his imagination about the figure. Bijender, being his loyal helper, promptly seconded him. Then I informed them that the figure is 4 crore 70 lakh rupees for a single peg of Japanese whisky. It didn’t fit in anywhere in their scheme even in the wildest of imaginations. No wonder they took it as a joke. A PJ in fact that didn’t elicit even a tiny peal of laughter. But we have to understand that it’s a small world for them where big sums appear a joke. If not for this, how will they even melt their bones under inclement weather on construction sites for a daily wage as low as a few hundred rupees?

A rainbow at the day's tail end

 

A gloomy, lukewarm, overcast early October day at the fag end of autumnal corridor. A day on the fringe of all seasons. A disowned day with orphaned feeling. And the sky shedding a few tears, as if in mourning for better times and climes. Some drops of rain leaving just scarring dots on the sand. Then some solacing ray of hope at the time of sunset. The sun calls it off from official duties a few minutes past six. The clouds in the west thinned and orangish curtains cast a faded glow on the darkish grey stage to the east. A little piece of sky over the north-eastern horizon slightly parted to allow the light’s protagonist to raise a beacon of hope. A little arc of rainbow smiled. A rainbow at the end of a gloomy tale proclaiming that there is still hope, that all isn’t lost, that there will be a balmy day tomorrow, or the day afterwards, or still later. But come it will for sure. Then the sun dived further low beyond the faded orange curtain. The little arc of rainbow was gently wiped clean from the sky’s slate.

A beautiful sadly sweet phenomena above and the bustling world below. The India-South Africa cricket match happens to be one of the numerous happenings. The Africans score pretty comfortably in the first forty overs. The Indians then make a comeback, allowing the visitors hardly a run a ball in the slog overs. To we Indians, it means great performance by our bowlers. To the Africans, it means a poor show by their batters. Both have their own versions of reality. Where does truth lie in the equation? I think it’s there in the middle, balancing out both extremes—the Indians bowled well, but the Africans batted poorly also. Doesn’t each of them support the other for its validation? The loser helps the winner in its victory; the winner also facilitates the loser’s defeat.

The story of a stylish, modern-day canine mom

 

Bhuro is a brown and white rotund bitch in the village street. She looks replete with self-care, in complete contrast to other maternally worn out hassled female canines in the locality. She eats only warm buttered chapattis. She doesn’t give much trouble to her lungs by unnecessary barking like the rest of her ilk. I have seen many famished, worn- and worked-out female dogs due to the heavy burden of puppy rearing. But in comparison Bhuro seems a glamorous, narcissistic post-modern girl. I have never seen her attending her maternal duties. Then the secret comes out. She eats all of her newborn puppies to maintain her youth, glamor and figure. Of course there must be some very significant reason to account for her weird behavior. Mysteries of nature is all I can reckon in this regard.

Her meaning of life is in stark contrast to an old black bitch I remember from my young days. She would embarrass even the human mothers in taking care of her newborns. Once her sole surviving puppy also died. But she won’t allow anyone to take it away for burial. She kept licking and tending to the corpse for many days. Of course, love cannot stop a corpse from rotting. I shooed her away using a feigned demonic show of waving sticks, shouting angry words and stomping gestures. Then I hurriedly buried the carcass, secured the tiny grave with a big stone and many thorny boughs of keekars lest the mother in her digs out the dead from the grave. To her canine sense of motherhood I was the murderer of her puppy, and for weeks it would howl whenever she saw me. It would leave me very guilty.

There was another sweet canine mom who had such a liking for her kids that she would steal others’ puppies and rear them as her own. In comparison to these puppy-loving moms, Bhuro stands at the opposite end of earth in temperament and philosophy of life.

The political nursery

 

It was a hornet’s nest unleashed on us with the announcement of elections for the village panchayat, the village level governing body. Sarpanch elections have acquired such seriousness as to hold the entire village by throat and give it a very serious shake. The atmosphere is clouded with posters, pamphlets, banners and fliers, so many of them as we didn’t even see in parliamentary elections during our childhood. Politics is a lucrative career, in every sense of the term. It’s the biggest key to empowerment.

Most of the power aspirants have little clue about what is to be filled up in the nomination form even though these are in Hindi these days. So a big task awaits me. They appear on the edge of life, so much seriousness about the forms. God forbid if there is some mistake and it might get rejected. So they trust the bookish guy in the village. The form is almost an intimidating booklet with so many instructions and clauses. ‘It left my head spinning,’ one of them looked very sad.

I peer nervously at the form booklet. There are many pages devoted to the ongoing and past skirmishes with law: a record of petty as well as solid falling off the legal ladder. So the government of India fully understands that the contestants will have lots of FIRs, court cases and complaints against them.

But I felt further cut down to even smaller academic size the moment I reached the column for academic qualifications of the candidate. It was just one line at the end of the page, almost inconsequential. By chance the printing ink was very light here to make it even more insignificant item of little concern. So the government knows that the candidates will have just as much academic record as to fill up merely a half line at the end of a page in the form.

Sarpanch elections have acquired massive proportions. Campaigning has become unbelievably expensive. Lots of cash is also distributed among the poor voters. They even have loudspeakers mounted on E-rickshaws proclaiming the credentials of a candidate who would make it a Ramrajya with clean governance. One candidate spent one crore rupees. He did a lot of charity work as well. Many ineligible bachelors were lucky to get brides with the kindness and connections of this candidate. He took large groups of villagers for fully-sponsored pilgrimages as well. He raised a whirlwind with his tireless activities. Then his clever election committee built a narrative that he has spent each penny in his pocket and will commit suicide if he lost the elections. There was a sympathy wave and he won handsomely.           

The entire story of Rashe Ram's schooling

 

Rashe Ram went to school for four days, or just three and half to be precise. All families in the villages at least try to put their wards in the shafts of the schooling cart. Most of the yoked imps galloped to freedom without wasting too much time. They still do so in the villages but things have improved marginally in this regard. Master Sube Singh pulled little Rashe’s ears on day one. It was painful. A round of defecation on the carpet in the school verandah earned his ears to be literally pulled out on day two. Day three came with urination on the floor and a bite on the face of a fellow student, which earned him a severe shaking of his head, ruffled hair and big reprimand. Some repeat of the earlier tasks earned him a beating around mid-day on the fourth day. As he was caned, he took an impish opportunity to hit the teacher’s head with his wooden writing tablet. There was blood. He fled from the school forever. But he tried to keep his younger brothers Karne and Munna in school. It was done with a sense of inflicting torture on his siblings. They were in class five and six respectively. Bhoop would get drunk and harass the boys, plundered their lunch and eat it. It became a habit with the big-time neighborhood drunk. So Rashe, all of thirteen or fourteen, beat the liquor lover. He later beat the thinnest sloshed Raame over some issue. These are three violent acts that he committed in life. The rest is all love with three or four poor peasant women who surrender to his animalistic charms as an escapade from the hard facts of life.

Fast, faster, fastest

 

On October 1, 2022 5G services were launched in India. The most interesting marketing feature—that would inevitably see the millennials running to upgrade their network, forcing the middle-aged and the elderly to copy them later—is that a two-hour movie would be downloaded in just ten seconds. With the old 4G technology it takes seven to eight minutes. I’m not against technology but I think we have been running faster and faster to save time. With 6G we would seek to get it done in one second. Then the race would enter the echelons of nanoseconds. My only curiosity is when will we pause to enjoy the fruit of our time-saving technologies. Despite the best of our time savers, we are busier than ever. I think the race against time will finally burn us up—like a meteorite burns to nothingness as it crashes through earth’s atmosphere. And why do we run faster and faster? It’s due to our dynamic belief that found sitting, then walking, then jogging we give the impression of being backward. So still faster we have to run. We have now a vast human sprawl on this tiny planet. So running faster creates huffing-puffing avenues to keep the new load busy and engaged. But then we are heading for an explosion!

Father and Son

 

My brother Amit is a cool and composed IT professional. He has never been ambitious in the sense that we see people toppling apple carts to rise in careers and professions. A handsome six-footer he has never been too eager to shake the stage too enthusiastically to make his presence felt. At the beginning of planning a career he showed zeal for joining the Indian army and gave a serious try but things won’t work out. Then he dropped the yoke of career aspirations for some time. He took to farming on a part of our land and after finishing the tasks in the morning, he would settle down, after taking a relaxing bath, dressed very-very casually, to read newspaper under the neem tree in front of our house. Father had retired by that time and pulled the family cart with his pension money. Father would smoke and drink tea throughout the day. He still maintained his routine of leaving the house in the morning like during his office days. But now it was the little tea shop in the town where a few of his friends gathered to pass time. He would return from the town in the afternoon.

As he reached home, Father would—having failed to incite his younger son into a volcanic eruption regarding career even with almost cataclysmic fatherly outpours of care, concern and anger—greet the newspaper-reading gentleman with a question in great Krishnamurti’s style, ‘Sir, are you a retired pensioner?’ ‘No sir!’ Amit would reply with a slight embarrassment. Later on, Amit made a career in the IT sector, a bit belated though. But now is doing quite well in his job.

The common story of a common homemaker

 

Rajesh comes from a small village in a neighboring district. He learnt the most basic of education concerning reading and then decided to know about life in the living workshop itself. He worked as an apprentice to a lead acid battery maker, commuting daily to work at the town in crowded buses plying on famished roads. Discipline and diligence paid off and he evolved in profession. Now he has his own shop and sells both his own products as well as fancier brands.

His family stays in a nice little house at the town. His children go to an English medium school. Thanks to my buying a few inverter batteries from him, he is now a trustable friend. He seemed very concerned about my financially unproductive writing venture when I told him that I’m writing a book. A few months down the line, during our next meeting, after a frank discussion about the financial prospects of his battery business, he threw the ball in my court. ‘Have you completed that coppy?’ he enquired in all brotherly seriousness. To him writing, page, notepad, notebook, file, diary, book, tome everything is a simple ‘coppy’. I was clueless about this ‘coppy’. Then he picked up his dog-eared tiny pocket diary where he noted the stats of his business, mostly about the errant clients who delayed payments, and brandished it, ‘Yes coppy. You were writing a coppy na?’ So I assured him that my coppy was going well. At least it rhymes with ‘shoppy’. The latter happens to be the farmers’ version of the classical ‘Sufi’ christened upon me by my father.

The hollowness of words

 

Each word is incomplete, just an abstract, broken fragment born of thoughts arising in the mind. And the mind itself is a grainy fragment of the overall consciousness. Words are mere grains of sand. With sand grains we try to make castles, huge castles that we make 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 there is a void full of potential for all the noise.

Keep going!

 Why do we like to do something we really love, our Ikigai?...when we do something (like writing in my case), we do it basically to further our belief in life...to keep our belief in something meaningful in the face of all the nonsense and meaningless chaos around, to keep our hope and belief in life alive, to keep going, to have some purpose to keep going....in whatever we do, we are simply justifying our entitlement to life... it's never about breaking stars or being a success icon, that's just a secondary off-spin...the primary thing is that this 21% energy in 2% mass in the head has to spin its webs to somehow keep drawing some meaning our of the chaos within and without...we have to do something, otherwise we feel hollow, dead and lost... doing something is like the compass that at least keeps giving us some sense of direction in our journey in the cosmic sea...

And when we fail to draw a direction, or do something (big or small doesn't matter, doing is just doing... only the soulful action matters), this huge energy in the little space within us creates a storm... because then we have lost direction...like a storm in the sea...so the mind needs engagement in the NOW... otherwise it's a whirlpool of aimless scattered energy... that's why action is soo sooo important...like in Gita... it's just about action... action without the worries of results is the holiest thing...it can be tending to a flowerpot or a solitary walk or making a nuclear bomb or even sitting in silence with full awareness...that's all action..

And while we are soulfully engaged in our Ikigai, it's not that we are totally blind to a vision. It exists. Even if it's a vage outline. There is always a point drawing us towards it. It's a kind of little anchorage finally. It's an opportunity basically. You may not take it as such. But it's an opportunity to feel better than we are doing presently.

That point is waiting for you like all of us...but to reach that point you have to keep your smile and smilingly shake hand with the opportunity when you reach it...the opportunity is always at fixed points in the infinite potential field...we with our human dynamics have to reach it...so walk towards your opportunity with smile, belief and confidence... opportunity never fails us...it will always wait for us to reach it... only we fail and falter and miss our date with it... because we lose faith and smile on the way...so keep going lovely souls...keep flying and fluttering...your orchard always waits for you because it surely exists...so don't miss to complete the journey!

सबका नंबर आएगा

 इतना सन्नाटा क्यों है भाई?! डरो मत नंबर सबका आएगा। Electrolal autocracy के साइड इफेक्ट्स हैं साहब। शुरुआत बड़े ऑपोजिशन के लोगों से हुई है, लेकिन अंत में आम आदमी का भी नंबर जरूर आएगा। विश्व गुरु बनने में सबका योगदान होगा। एक साधारण आदमी का भारत को विश्व गुरु बनाने में योगदान इस तरह है: आंख मूंद कर राजा साहब की आज्ञा का पालन करना, जो कुछ हो रहा है उसको सैद्धांतिक तौर पर ठीक मान कर अपने दुख को हजम करने की आदत डालना, चाहे आपको बिना बात जेल में डाल दिया जाए तो फिर भी स्वीकार करना की गलती खुद से ही हुई होगी, राजा को देवता मानकर पूजना, ED, CBI, IT धर्म रक्षक संस्था मानकर उनका अपने द्वार पर स्वागत करना, EVM और EC को निष्पक्षता के देवी देवता मानकर घर के मंदिर में उनकी फोटो लगाना, गंगा स्नान की जगह राजनैतिक वाशिंग मशीन में सफाई करवाना और भागवत्ता प्राप्त करना, कान भाड़ मीडिया के शेरों की दहाड़ को खरगोश की तरह नम्रता, सच्ची श्रद्धा से सुनना और उनके बताए जुमलों को पवित्र ग्रन्थ मानकर उनका अनुसरण करना। इस तरह की अनेकों छोटी छोटी चीज़ें हैं जो आपको आने वाले पांच सालों में जीने के लिए तैयार कर देंगी। ऐसा करने से एक नए भारत में आपको जीने में काफी मदद मिलेगी।

The tiny remnants from the birdie world

 

Nothing is too far and isolated from the reach of all-pervading pollution. It’s the first week of November and the Delhi NCR has turned a gas chamber. Even though I’m located almost 50 km from Delhi, yet it smells as bad as in Delhi. The little serpentine trail of wilderness running between the canals is shrouded in metallic haze. The trees, birds, bushes, plants and the canals sulkily lay under the clawy grip of the thick smog. There is no wind to swipe away the swabs of suffocation. Not a leaf moves. Proud smog is heavily loaded upon mother earth’s bosom. If you take a picture, it would definitely qualify as a beautiful foggy countryside picture. But it would be lifeless. Over a period of time even this poisoned picture will vanish to be replaced by an even bleaker vision.

Gone are the days of big groups of birds. A couple of herons, two-three egrets and some meek cormorants play the role of moving characters in this smog-smeared, frozen picture. A tiny warbler preens from the clump of elephant grass. A parrot tweets dispiritedly. An ibis gives a pathetic, suffering call. A few black kites go scouting the ground. A coucal is busy in the tall clumps of sharp-leaved reeds. A migrant Bihari laborer has cast a fish-line in the canal. A happy news at last bringing a smile on his face. He catches a rohu, a good half kg of freshwater meat. He is still fresh after the chhath celebrations.

Some Nepalese are employed at a poultry farm. They have caught a swarm of little eels from the shallow waters of a distributary field channel branching off from one of the canals. Life has all the reasons to be busy against all odds. Wondering at the capacity of life to adopt newer and newer ways of staying optimistic even in the face of all these gloomy clouds, I move on my customary stroll along the thin ribbon of wilderness along the space between the canals.

The criticality of everything from religion to rags

 

There are critical issues. Everything, from religion to rags, seems in a tight political grip. However, unbothered of all the bigger things a beautiful scene unfolds. It’s a lovely lush green carpet of tiny wheat saplings in a field. A relaxed evening is building up. Bright, warm, yellowish sunrays streaming down on the little wheat crop painted with farming precision in the fields. A farmer is watering his wheat crop. Watering the crops means a feast for the egrets. A party of snow-white egrets is feasting on the worms and insects scurrying out to save themselves from the flood.

Elsewhere, the mankind has been at war with nature. And in its angry, stressful wake has lost 50 percent sperm count during the last fifty years. We may go for blatant propagation of our species, but mother nature knows exactly well how to level up the things.

We love cows and revere them. They seem to feel somehow that they are empowered politically at the moment. So they sit right in the middle of busy roads and majestically chew cuddle. I think they are safer on the roads than the humans are. The vigilante groups are very diligent in their responsibilities.

The monkeys are also revered by we Hindus because of their connection with Lord Hanuman. We are very busy these days, so have little time to do justice to our faith. So as we are running for office and business or pilgrimages we throw fruits and eatables towards the monkeys waiting by the roadside. The cute simians run to grab the respectful offerings. Many get killed and injured by speeding vehicles. But the thrower of things thinks that he has done a pious task.   

The little world of farmers

Ranbeer 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 our farming partnership to the last paisa. That is the simple broadsheet of his life. It’s an ideology-free life of a farmer, untangled, aloof from the snarling complexities of the mind.  

The doctors couldn’t give any clue to his swooning fits, 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 the poor jokes cracked by the bookish guys like yours truly. 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 pajama and after that I feel very weak for a couple of days,’ he gave me the medical summary to diagnose the nature of his medical condition.

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 tractor 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 domain of 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. Ranbeer all smug, and looking at the mouth-watering prospects of getting a full liquor bottle to drink in the evening with his pals, was plying his tractor on the road to the town. A couple of farmers were 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 Ranbeer’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 or symptoms. 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 Ranbeer 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, won’t allow her to sit idle. So she just cannot subdue her inclination to start walking to the fields to work and sweat out the miseries of life. But she harasses him a lot, cracks jokes, treats him like a child, and fires puns and much-much more.

There is some wild growth in a corner of one of the fields. A big cobra stays there. People talk about it with awe and wonder. The share-cropping couple has planted laukis. Ranbeer’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 crawled 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 on 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 ratio 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. Ranbeer 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 dung-cakes from a bitoda, a conical dung-cake store covered with hay and straw. Ranbeer 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 Notebook of Dancing Shadows (My Latest Book)

 

<Blurb (A Notebook of Dancing Shadows)>

Step into the world of the introspective and poetic writer, where the mundane transforms into the profound, and the ordinary becomes extraordinary. In ‘A Notebook of Dancing Shadows,’ we are invited into the gentle embrace of a soulful observer, who effortlessly weaves together the threads of everyday life with the tapestry of the spiritual realm.

With each turn of the page, readers are drawn deeper into the writer’s inner sanctum, where thoughts flutter like leaves in the wind and emotions ebb and flow like the tide. From the whispering secrets of nature to the intricate dance of social processes, every observation is tinged with a sense of wonder and reverence for the world around us.

But beyond mere observation, this collection transcends the boundaries of the ordinary, delving into the writer’s spiritual quest for meaning and truth. Through moments of contemplation and introspection, he grapples with the mysteries of existence, seeking solace in the beauty of the unknown.

‘A Notebook of Dancing Shadows’ is not just a book, but a journey—a journey of the heart, the mind and the soul. It is a lyrical exploration of life’s complexities, rendered with a delicate touch and an unwavering sense of grace. So, step into the writer’s world and let his words illuminate the path to a deeper understanding of the human experience.

<Preface>

Welcome, dear reader, to a journey through the meandering paths of observation, reflection and contemplation. In the pages that follow, you’ll find an eclectic mix of thoughts, musings and opinions penned by a humble wanderer of the countryside, where the whispers of nature intertwine with the echoes of profound existential questions.

I am but a simple soul, dwelling in the embrace of a not so tranquil village, where luckily time still moves at its own semi-leisurely pace, and somehow one can still feel that the rhythm of life is dictated by the seasons. From the vantage point of my rustic abode, I embark on solitary walks, allowing the gentle embrace of nature to envelop me in its serene folds.

In the quiet solitude of these wanderings, I find myself attuned to the subtle symphony of the natural world – the delicate flutter of a butterfly’s wings, the ephemeral beauty of a wildflower by the wayside, or the poignant dance of a leaf as it takes its final flight from the branches above. Each of these seemingly mundane occurrences carries within it a profound message, a glimpse into the interconnectedness of all things, and a reminder of the transient nature of existence.

But my observations extend beyond the realm of the natural world, encompassing the grand tapestry of human affairs and the tumultuous currents of society. From the smallest acts of kindness to the grandest geopolitical upheavals, I offer my reflections with a poet’s heart and a seeker’s spirit.

As you delve into the pages of this book, you may find yourself traversing unexpected terrain – from the tranquil beauty of a sun-dappled glade to the chaotic hustle and bustle of the human experience. Yet, amidst the cacophony of voices clamoring for attention, I invite you to pause, to linger awhile, and to contemplate the deeper truths that lie beneath the surface of our existence.

For I am not merely an observer of life; I am a participant in its unfolding drama, a fellow traveler on the winding road of human experience. And in sharing my thoughts and insights with you, I hope to spark a dialogue, to ignite the flame of curiosity, and to inspire a renewed sense of wonder and appreciation for the world around us.

My beliefs are firmly rooted in humanism and secularism. I am also not immune to the allure of the spiritual realm. Indeed, many of the pieces contained within these pages are imbued with a sense of awe and reverence for the mysteries that lie beyond the confines of our understanding.

So, dear reader, as you embark on this journey with me, I encourage you to approach it with an open mind and a willing heart. For in the pages of this book, you may find not only a reflection of my own thoughts and experiences but also a mirror in which to contemplate your own journey through life.

May you find solace in the beauty of nature, wisdom in the complexity of human affairs, and inspiration in the eternal quest for truth and meaning! And may the words contained herein serve as a gentle guide on your own path of discovery.

With warmest regards,

Sandeep Dahiya (Sufi), April 2024

Be a healer

 All of us carry an aura around us. It comprises an electro-magnetic field born of the flow of the life energy through and around our bodies. The quality of this aura is a function of our mental, physical and emotional states. Anger, regret, fear, jealousy, desperation, sorrow, rejection and hopelessness create a sort of negative energy and consequently a negative aura. It means we carry bad aura. It pollutes the surrounding environment like a heap of garbage. Now isn’t it our bounden duty to keep the environment clean by remaining positive, happy, smiling, poised, relaxed, sympathetic and compassionate? It's our duty fella! It's as good for others' health as it is for our own. All the steps to the cleaning of all types of pollutants start from the self. Stay happy. Just by doing this we do a social service.

The lost faith

 Casting a vote feels futile in the present circumstances. As a voter, using the EVM (in its current form and management under a vastly politicised election commission) feels like going into the battle with a stick while the mighty soldiers are fighting with rocket launchers. Further, under the current political authority, my faith in free and fair elections has been jolted because when you try to retain power 'at whatever cost' then democracy gets sabotaged. There are enough loopholes in our entire bureaucratic, judicial and legislative system to allow misuse and manipulation to pass as legalized actions. The media, as all of us know, is no longer free, fair and unbiased (with the exception of few upright journalists whose name can be counted on fingers), in its reporting and coverage of issues. Fancy, fictionalized narratives do the rounds, pleasantly blinding the people in their sand-swirls. Yes, India has emerged strongly internationally, no doubt about that. But it has come at the cost of lots of undemocratic maneuvering internally. The society is highly polarized on hate principles based on caste, region and religion. The rich have turned super rich; the poor have turned poorer. The farmers and laborers are under a lot of stress. An empty stomach can't pacify its hunger by reviving the hypothetical national glory of Dharam Rajya and Vishva Guru. They need bread. We still are a poor nation with a high quotient of jingoism and hoopla. So on the voting day, it would be far better to carry on the routine work. Why should we the common people disturb our mundane schedule? The election day is a festival of democracy. One should be in high spirits on this occasion. But how can one feel it to be a festival when it's just a mudslinging game among the power aspirants?!

The art of emptying

 Well before you take steps to fulfill your dreams, learn the art of emptying, of letting go, of letting out unwanted mossy dregs in the container of your destiny. Emptying isn’t defeatist. It’s not surrender. It’s a calculated step towards victory, towards fulfillment. It’s the preparation for gain, the beginning of filling up. Instead of running after the mirage of fulfillment, focus on emptying. Fulfillment is just a step away. Fullness starts at the moment of complete emptying. Wash, scrub, rinse and drain out the muck from the pot of your destiny. Wash away hate, anger, jealousy, ignorance, desires, phobias, complexities and overblown ambition. Drain these out. Let it be a perfectly clean and swanky pot of emptiness. The universe is expanding. It wants clean chambers to pour its energy into. It will sneak into the clean house in the form of your dreams and aspirations. The swabs clinging to the bottom are the repellents to fulfillment. Clean these. Work on emptying. Work on emptiness and you are in fact moving towards fullness. In a perfectly clean container there is no limitation on fulfillment, no hurdles to materialization of dreams, no restrictions on infinite cosmic harmony pouring its vastness into the container. A scribbled canvas has limitations of painting, a clean one has infinite possibilities of shapes and pictures. Scrub the slate clean before you start the journey. Even if it means a lifetime of emptying, it still will not be a loss. Even a second of fulfillment will be worth it. It will still be better than pouring the nectar of your efforts in an unclean pot, and just adding onto the stinking broth that never gives happiness and satisfaction.

A little slice of truth

 It’s a lush green forest around you. Birds are chirping. It’s early morning and a cool breeze is blowing. Nearby, gurgling waters of a brook add music to the stillness around. You feel better. It feels good. The external orderliness, peace and calm raise the bar of your better feeling. With the same set of your own individual, internal, self-specific problems, worries and concerns you feel better if the surrounds are better.

The desert sand is burning. It’s noon and forget about trees you cannot see even a blade of grass for miles. You feel horrible. You feel bad. Worse than your self-specific set of worries make you feel normally. You feel bad if the surroundings are not convenient.

We cannot inhale in isolation. If there is misery in air, it will enter your lungs. Use air-masks and air filters, do whatever. Life still will be stifling and genuine efforts just a struggle because we cannot help inhaling our share of the miseries. The solution lies in cutting down on pollutants. Not in wearing masks. But when it comes to our struggle to increase our happiness, the efforts are almost as useless as wearing masks when the air is polluted.  

Our own set of factors that make life either good or bad are not the sole deciding elements in making us happy or unhappy. If we are happy, then we are just sharing a fraction of the overall happiness surrounding us. Our lungs are safe just in proportion to the purity of air around. If the quality of air is good, only then the individual battles like quitting smoking, eating healthy and doing yoga to keep lungs safe will be meaningful. 

If we are unhappy, that also is a fraction of the overall misery spread around. Individual is just a constituent of the whole. Happiness is drawn from the overall pool. How long the frogs will sing songs of self gratification in a vanishing pond? Its waters vaporizing. Its shoreline decreasing. Stanching green mossy puddle. What can be drawn out of it? Only death and misery, not life and happiness.   

A talented software engineer, with his tools of prosperity and happiness, is of no use at a place like Somalia. There is no surrounding prosperity to help him nurture his talent. There is no supportive economy and companies to help him contribute to the overall wellness and get a fraction of the happiness and feel good. A software engineer prospers in America because using his skills he can contribute to and earn back a fraction of the happiness spread around.         

The surroundings set the stage for either make or break. 

“Love thy neighbor!” By loving others you are loving yourself. By caring for others, you are caring for yourself. By contributing to happiness, you are adding to your own happiness because your share of happiness and prosperity will be just a fraction of the overall happiness around. With your effort and skills, you draw a big portion if the social forest around you is healthy like the natural forest where each breath installs new vitality in you. 

Long before you really start doing something to add to the overall wellness around you, start with a simple practice. You might be busy with scores of neck-breaking responsibilities, leaving you with very little time for real action on the goodness front. Start thinking good of others. Think good for your surroundings. Be happy over others’ victories. Smile over somebody’s stroke of luck. Feel bad for somebody’s loss. Say some sympathetic words as well. Over years, the goodness in womb will get healthy. It will deliver a healthy baby. And sooner or later you will definitely ‘do’ something to add to the overall goodness around you before you finish your journey. 

You will then have a larger share from the pool of wellness. When the sun will be setting and you preparing to enter the night for rest, you will walk into the forest with well-meaning steps. It will be a far happier retirement than it would have been otherwise.