The evening shades in the fields of my village

 Not much to write...the canvas of nature says it all... it's an open book..read as much as you can with all your senses open...

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An evening party

 A late evening get together of black kites... maybe to discuss the strategies to get a few fish from the pisciculture ponds under strict human vigilance...

Givers and takers

 

I have seen a few wonderful old women beggars—even though calling them ‘beggars’ would be almost a sin but given my inability to find a suitable title for them I use the word beggar—who would put out their hand with such grace, dignity, motherliness, humility, kindness, gratitude and smile that it appears like a mystical treasure, almost a blessing by a saint. Remembering them I feel that it would be incorrect to call them ‘takers’ because even though a coin passed onto their palms they gave back something far more substantial and deep, something that touches your soul, enriching you in a profound way. And after getting softly, gently touched by their presence, as you walk away, the material burden on you minus by a metallic coin, you feel enriched in a mystical, soulful way.

In contrast, I remember many materially rich people travelling in costly cars, clad in brand clothes, adorned with gold and platinum, the ones whom we mistakenly term as ‘givers’. When they give something to a poor person, something very small that wouldn’t even match the cost of biscuits for their pampered dog, there is almost a malicious frown on their face. The frown, the outer lines of the poverty of the soul inside, conveying deep sense of fear, insecurities, dis-ease and absence of joy in life despite all the material wealth around. They appear to ‘give’ something but do they actually ‘give’? In fact they seem to ‘take’ something from the poor palm spread in front of them. I think with that look of hatred and repulsiveness they take away the last semblance of dignity and self-respect still surviving in a corner of the destitute person’s heart. They take away the smile and belief in humanity somehow still lying in tiny bits in the soul of that poor person.

So we have to think and observe it carefully. Not all beggars are just ‘takers’; many of them are ‘givers’ of some invisible substance comprising genuine smile, blessing, gratitude and kindness. They appear to take a little coin or morsels of food but in reality they are returning something very-very big in its subtle proportions. Also, not all rich charity givers are just ‘givers’, they are takers, almost robbers, of the last traces of humanity lying in a poor person. They appear to give something but in reality they are taking back something far more precious.

A drizzle of flowers

This is just one-fourth of the flowers that drizzle in a flowery, scented rain from the two Parijat trees in the yard. Scented, dewy, flowery nights; and the rain of flowers on cool mornings. With so many flowers around no wonder I find my spirit dancing, intoxicated with the beauty of the countless blooms and scented breeze.

Using honesty to validate dishonesty

 प्रतिद्वंद्वी को निष्पक्ष लड़ाई में कम महत्वपूर्ण राज्य जीतने की अनुमति दें; इस बीच, साथ-साथ अधिक महत्वपूर्ण राज्य जीतें, भले ही इसके लिए अनुचित साधनों का उपयोग करना पड़े। उदाहरण के लिए, जम्मू-कश्मीर और हरियाणा। जम्मू-कश्मीर कम और हरियाणा ज़्यादा महत्वपूर्ण क्यों है? क्योंकि जम्मू-कश्मीर में सर्वशक्तिमान उपराज्यपाल के पास वास्तविक शक्ति है और विधानसभा अब तक लगभग नाममात्र और प्रतीकात्मक प्रकृति की है। इसलिए इससे कोई फर्क नहीं पड़ता कि विधानसभा का संचालन कौन करता है। हरियाणा क्यों है ज्यादा महत्वपूर्ण? क्योंकि यह परम सत्ता की सीट दिल्ली को तीन तरफ से घेरता है। किसान हरियाणा की सीमाओं के बाहर बैठे हैं. यदि कोई प्रतिद्वंद्वी सरकार सत्ता में आती है, तो वह सीमाएं खोल देगी और किसान दिल्ली में अपने अधिकारों की मांग करेंगे। अगले चुनावों में भी यही स्थिति होगी: झारखंड और महाराष्ट्र। निष्पक्ष मुकाबले में कम महत्वपूर्ण झारखंड को हारें; महाराष्ट्र को जीतना अधिक महत्वपूर्ण है, चाहे जो भी साधन अपनाना पड़े। फिर आपको प्रतिद्वंद्वी द्वारा आपके द्वारा चुनाव में हेरफेर के आरोपों को खारिज करने का एक तर्क मिल जाता है। आप बस इतना कहते हैं कि देखिए आप दूसरे राज्य में जीत गए और फिर भी आप ईवीएम के दुरुपयोग का रोना रो रहे हैं। यही कारण है कि एक साथ होने वाले इन चारों विधानसभाओं के चुनाव को दो भागों में बांट दिया गया। यह घोषणा लाल किले पर एक राष्ट्र, एक चुनाव की घोषणा के एक दिन बाद की गई थी।

Allow the rival to win the less important state in a fair fight; meanwhile, side by side win the more important state even if it means using unfair means. J & K and Haryana, for example. Why is J & K less important and Haryana more? Because in J & K the all powerful Lt. Governor holds the real Power and the assembly is almost nominal and symbolic in nature as of now. So it hardly matters who holds the assembly. Why is Haryana more important? Because it surrounds Delhi, the seat of ultimate power, from three sides. The farmers are sitting outside Haryana borders. If a rival government comes to power, it will open the borders and the farmers would be in Delhi demanding their rights. The same will be the case in the next set of elections: Jharkhand and Maharashtra. Lose the less important, Jharkhand, in a fair contest; win Maharashtra, the more important, using whatever means it takes. You then get a logic to undo the rival's allegations of election manipulations by you. You simply say that see you won the other state and still you are crying about the misuse of EVMs. That's the reason the elections for these four assemblies, which were due to be held together, were divided into two sets. The announcement coming a day after the Red Fort declaration of one nation, one election.

The smile of a stone

 

Life invincible 💪 A crack in the concrete wall. Some chance seed of a flower. Rains. Dew. And you have a little flower on the top of a tiny plant. The triumph of life, the urge to manifest from unknown to the known. Is the flower separate from the stone? No. It’s mere extension of the stone from its cracked lip, its mouth open to the possibilities. I would say it’s a smile on the stone’s lips.

Even in its barren womb the stone has the probability and potential for life. All it needs is a little crack, some drops of rain and a chance seed to transform that potential into reality. The stone smiles. The flower isn't something separate from it. It's merely an extension of it.

Manifestation is just a set of probabilities coming together from the infinite, ever evolving fabric of potential and probabilities. And of course it needs a set of appreciating eyes to witness this Leela...to complete one little circle within the greatest circle ever ... things going round and round...little cycles within the bigger cycles and still bigger ones to follow... going so big to again fall back into a point... nothingness and everythingness just the same same..  

Two frogs out of the village well

 

My first independent trip as a traveler came in the first year at college. Me and my uncle—more of a friend because he was of my age, being the youngest of a dozen children fathered by my granduncle—went to Shimla. We have saved enough from our paltry pocket money to give us courage to see the larger world out there beyond the boundaries of our village and the nearby town. As per the fashion of the times, we had long pantaloons, belts with elaborate shining buckles, leather shoes, printed shirts with side-slits to carry them well both in and out of the trousers. All this was topped with dark oversized sunglasses to make it a photogenic presentation.

I had a little red and black rectangular Panasonic camera to capture the moments pumped by the adolescence youth in us. We hit it off with a lot of spirits. Trekking to Tara Devi temple we soon realized that people already knew where we come from. The little shrine is situated ten kilometers down from Shimla on a hill from where Shimla glittered like a tiny heaven. I had been here as a part of the school children tourist group for fifteen days. That was a few years before and the pull of that free fun still beckoned me to the hill. During that trip, we had camped on a hill on the way to the shrine. It was a quaint British-time bungalow where we stayed. It was sheer fun. Well, of that sometime later.

Well, how did the people come to know where did we belong to without even having a word on the issue? Our actions speak louder than our tongues. We had been dislodging dead pine trunks down the slope. ‘You must be from Haryana! No wonder!’ a man exasperatedly sighed.

We captured the best dining moment of our lives at a restaurant at the erstwhile summer capital of the British India. It was a very high-end facility from our rural standards. The table had knives, forks, napkins. We hardly had any clues about this. But we felt bound to use them, so we followed others with a lot of anxiety. Then the beautiful aroma and wonderful taste of the food relaxed us, making us bold enough to click the best moments of life so far. Our bowls and plates had been wiped clean to do justice to the every paisa spent on the order.

There was a gentle hum of the urban people eating with dignity and perfect decorum. We had eaten too fast, we soon realized. The people basically talked and enjoyed the time there and took little bites in between. We had plainly gobbled down the food. The people who were already there when we arrived had barely touched their stuff. Sitting in a restaurant isn’t all about gobbling the food straightaway, first lesson. So we thought of prolonging our stay there. The bowls with warm water and lemon slices arrived. ‘See, they serve lemon juice as well to help digestion!’ we told each other. So this being our last item, we took elegantly stretched time to finish it like the real gentlemen do. We squeezed the lemon slices with a well-meaning look and sipped the digestive juice with a meditative muse. In fact we took many pictures of the cherishing sips. All this while a gentleman—a real one—casually looked and unhurriedly carried on with his lunch. A thorough gentleman not to get judgmental at all. His look didn’t betray even the slightest condemnatory hint towards our manner of treating a finger dip as a stomach wash. So we had a prolonged lemon juice drinking spree.

Then the moment of second learning struck with a nice punch. Very coolly the gentleman squeezed the lemons, expertly dabbed his oily fingers into the acidic concoction and elegantly wiped them on the napkin. The only saving grace was that he didn’t look at us even once while doing all this. A real gentleman, passing the message without making us feel embarrassed. Now it was difficult to stay there anymore due to our shame. We somehow managed to chicken out. Our entire schooling hadn’t taught this much as this visit to the restaurant did in a little time span.

We had shiny clothes, large shining belt buckles and still bigger glasses for our brattish faces. Now here was this beautiful Mall Road boulevard humming with tourists as the evening handed over the baton to a mercury lit arena. A perfect night for a lighted boulevard. But dark goggles are for shading the sun, the night is already shaded. To us a picture was incomplete without sunglasses, especially if you possess them. So we imitated an entire set of filmy postures with our hands on the hips and the legs positioned in varied ways to do justice to the sunglasses. All this while two girls, urban girls a bit senior to us, swankily clad in T-shirts, kept staring, giggling, saying something to each other. Now I realize that it was plain flirting and teasing to get us onto some encouraging frequency. But we weren’t exposed to such fine nuances. We felt offended. We thought they were joking at our expanse, making fun of us, little did we realize that teasing girls are a boon for the boys. It was a belated lesson, which I realized a few years later, as I vividly recalled their behavior, that it wasn’t an insult. It was a beautiful bait of youth. It was a tantalizing teasing. As urban girls and maybe a few years senior to us they knew far more in the domain of boys and girls. So quite foolishly, we felt insulted, scorned at them, threw daggers of hate at them, muttered our dissension in their direction, left the scene to carry on with our photo shoot at some other location.

Enlightenment is just a step away: Awareness

The early mornings in the beginning of winters have a mild chill. So here I’m draped in a chador, the best way the farmers and their ilk feel warm. Give them the best of a thermal clothing, which would keep one warm even in Antarctica, but the farmers would feel unequipped against cold in the absence of chador or blanket load over them. It only shows the level of habits in shaping our realities.

So here I’m draped in a light chador picking up fresh clothes to wear after a bath. The set of clothes slung over my arm, I’m looking for the missing towel. The towel has gone missing. It gives me concern as I go searching over the place. Then the concern turns to irritation for the inconvenience caused due to the missing towel. Then arrives self-justification. I’m sure that I always place my things at their proper place. So the reason for the missing towel must be someone else, not me. My family members can hear my irritated exclamations over the missing towel as I wander around looking for it. It’s not to be found anywhere. I’m sure that I cannot be so careless as to put it at a place where it cannot be found. There is a prompt conclusion that someone else has misplaced it—the very same old habit of putting the blame outside of one’s own self. ‘I always place it here, someone has misplaced it for sure!’ they hear my summarized mumbling over the episode.

Then it’s found. All of them are staring at me as it’s found. It’ there on my shoulder, hidden by the fold of chador draped around me. That was the first item I had picked up but then the chador corner must have slipped over and while adjusting it the towel got hidden. So here I stand with my lost towel found now. The towel that was always with me. But for whom I had already gone searching out, looked for the missing cause outside and already made judgments about the others as the cause.

It’s deeply humbling to be caught so wrong-footed, to be found so unaware. It only shows the level of unawareness we carry with ourselves on a daily basis. Then we go for a frantic search over the missing towel, the towel that was never lost. We go out on a search outside and naturally look for the reasons for its misplacement in other people.

Well, the towel is always there. But it’s hidden in the deep folds of the chador of unawareness. The chador of ignorance spun by a conditioned and customized self; made of the threads of limiting beliefs, fears and insecurities. Unawareness is draped around us like a chador’s folds and hides the towel of our real self. And thinking that the towel has gone missing, i.e., our real essential self, we go on a frantic search. We believe it to be outside. And when we don’t find it, obviously we blame others.

Like the missing towel we have lost touch with our real self. The hiding blanket of unawareness draped around us gives us a false sense of security against cold and vicissitudes of life. The towel of our real self is hidden among its folds. And we going on a futile search, feeling restless, wading our way through the network of family, friends, relatives, acquaintances. Assuming them or the larger world outside to be the cause of the missing towel. And we won’t feel the real rest till we find the missing towel. It but is nowhere to be found. How will it be found outside? It has been with us all along this time. But we have moved far and wide. We judge and blame others for the missing towel. We try different occupations, careers, faiths, belief systems and relationships to find the missing towel but fail.

The experience was deeply humbling. It showed me how our unawareness is the cause of all the unhappiness. From the missing towel to the estrangement with our true essential self, it’s the same germ of unawareness that begets us unhappiness and suffering. We just need to watch, understand and be aware of all that goes within and around us. Then maybe suddenly we find the towel slung right there on our own shoulder, while we had futilely covered miles after miles searching for it.

A journey with a Naga sadhu

 

I'm walking to Jhilmil gufa. In order to take a shortcut I end up taking a long-cut as it usually happens. The hill forests are mischievous. The tiny foortrails are green leafy mazes where they will try to keep you busy in solving the puzzle. Then a baba arrives from some other trail. I ask him about the caves where sage Gorakhnath did tapasya for many years. Incidentally he is also going to the caves. 

He is one of the most friendly babas I have seen. It's surprising given the fact that he is a Naga sadhu, the warrior ascetics who worship lord Shiva. Within a few minutes we are talking like good friends. 

Baba Shambhu Giri is from Jalna, Maharastra. He was a sickly child in a poor family who couldn't afford to get treatment for him. His helpless parents offered him to the holy fireplace at the ashram of a Naga baba. The baba took care of him from the age of five, treated him with herbal medicines, and initiated him into the order. He turned out to be a robust sadhu. His guru left his body, leaving the ashram and its 41 acre agricultural land under his care.

'I'm a farming Naga baba. I don't believe in asking for alms. I do farming on the ashram land,' he shows me his tough farming hands. Nagas have fought many times to upkeep dharma. 'Only a person from a warrior clan, the martial castes like Maratha, Jat, Sikh, Rajput, can become a Naga,' he says with pride as he walks with force in his steps like a soldier sage. 

I was surprised to know about the level of their opposition to Brahmins. I will avoid the details of that discussion because my Brahmin friends will get angry about this. I'm from a Jat family and to be frank at the level of community we too have lots of things to say against Brahmins, just like Brahmins have against us. He is happy to learn that I'm also from a martial caste. We Indians can't help getting into the casteist talk even when we are in the hill forests and happen to be a Naga and a spiritual seeker. So we have our share of bitching against the Brahmins. The details should always be avoided. The summary I can say is that Naga baba told me that Brahmins come from the lineage of daityas and in Maharashtra about 75% of people avoid getting a Brahmin for officiating at havan on auspicious occasions like marriages and other pujas. So that should give you the level of our bitching. Caste is a factor even in talks between two strangers in a forest. No wonder caste decides who rules the country. 

'The ashram land gives enough money. Then there is charity which we sadhus get so easily just sitting on our bums whether we deserve it or not. I use the money to manage the ashram, getting poor girls married and other charity work. And once a year I come out on my wanderings like this,' he is very honest about what he thinks and feels, be it money or caste. I like his honesty about most of the things. He just says what he thinks inside. No pretensions. 

Suddenly he gets excited like a boy and goes to a bush nearby. 'Bichhu buti, scorpion plant, I got myself bitten by it yesterday. It's very discomfiting and painful but I won't get any disease for the next six months,' he tells me. Who won't wish to have free, natural insurance against all diseases for six months. I ask him to get me bitten by the buti in the right proportions. He is hesitant. Then agrees. He holds a little shoot softly and gently allowing one tip to touch on the back of my palm. He removes it before it barely touched the skin, like a father would be careful not to harm his child. No effect. I pester him for a bit higher dose. So this time the touch is bigger, and still bigger on successive trials. I don't wince with pain. I don't get my free insurance. Both of us are disappointed. 'This is no bichhu buti. It's some fake plant imitating a famous one,' we concluded. 

Sadhus have a free passage to the place of other sadhus. An ash smeared Naga baba is performing a havan for a seemingly rich man. It's a big fireplace, the trishuls are big and ferocious. We sit in front of our host, he with friendly ease and me with apprehension because I have heard about their inflammable tempers when disturbed. But my Naga baba friend is an insurance against getting shoved away by the tip of a trishul. The ash smeared Naga is calm, focused on his rituals. He nods to our greeting and without stopping the process, gives us soaked grams and raisins as prasadam. To be frank I took almost as much as would fill my cupped palms together. I was hungry. Prasadam as food. The Naga baba watched it with muse. So I have my food and my friend baba has prasadam. 

We take leave from the baba and move onto our path. Then he suddenly points to a place where he faced a leopard during the Corona period. The world of humans had retreated and animals came out. 'It was standing there and snarled. I knew it could injure me if it didn't run away. Had I turned my back to it, it would have reached me in three strides. So I stood upfront and took up a stone. Never look away from a predator and never show your back. And hit it on the nose if it approaches you,' he shares the story. 

Then baba's chappal gets broken. I am wearing shoes. I feel guilty in walking in shoes while the baba has broken chappals. But surprisingly he walks as if it's not broken at all. Once in the gufa he tells me all the stories related to the place. We had tea in front of the Baba Gorakhnath's fireplace. They smoke weed. The cave's resident sadhu is a good host. Again the matter of caste comes up. 'Brahmins and householders aren't allowed to touch the holy ash in the fireplace,' the Gorakhnath order sadhu tells me. The casteist bugs in me are getting fattened today. I nod with glee, almost happy, even joyful about the fact that Brahmins don't hold monopoly to our faith. They maybe manage more of the ritualistic part of it. So we have to accept the fact that casteism is deeply entrenched in our Indian soul. It decides things from caves to presidential palaces. They are on a meditative high on weed, my head spins just with the smoke. My Naga friend will stay here today but I have to walk back. So Baba Shambhu Giri introduces other caves to me like Hanuman gufa and Ganesh gufa. And guides me to the trail that would take me to Neelkanth from where I could easily walk back to Rishikesh. I take out 500 rupees before taking leave. He isn't interested in it. He has enough he already told me. 'Maharaj, your chappal got broken while sharing this lovely journey with me, so it's my duty to give a replacement,' I request in all sincerity. He agreed. 'Ok, if you say so. I will buy good chappals in your name,' he laughs. We take leave.

I had a babboo stick with me as a companion on the way up. But I forgot it at the caves once I met the Naga baba. Now I missed the sturdy stick as I waded through a steep, faint trail among lots of bushes under the forest. And when I reached the place where he had pointed out the leopard I missed my stick even more. What will I do with a stick in the face of a leopard? Well, at least I would try to hit it on the foe's nose as suggested by the baba and get a solace that I die fighting. But there is no leopard and I quickly move through the feeble trails to get to the main path.

Evening shades

Evening shades...a musical silence...a pleasant sadness...a shifting stability...a solitudional companionship...a sweet loneliness...a whisper...a dewy smile...a place where light and dark have a date..

From the banks of Maa Ganga

 

Well, he performs better than at least me in smartly lopping water from a tap😃

And I always thought only I devoured books at a furious rate...well, there are bigger claimants 😂

A Bala Yogi

 

The most mischievous Bala Yogi...a Naga....he didn't speak..just hums like a black bee .. continuously..I laughed that he is actually a black bee hovering over the divine flower to sip the nectar of self realisation...

A sole Buddhist among Hindu Babas

 

Bhola Rikiyasan, a sole Buddhist among hundreds of Hindu mendicants...he recently said to the group of saffron clad sadhus around him that all of you are not at peace and that's why you people are wandering around. An argument started, turned into a brawl and soon would have changed to a fist fight, from the side of Hindu friars who looked very spirited to defend their dharma. A Hindu mauni baba negotiated peace with his lovely presence. 

Rikiyasan is from Gaya, was a Shiva devotee for 26 years, felt stuck up on the  path and converted to Buddhism six years back. Maybe that's the reason the Hindu Babas dislike him. Religious conversion is a  serious issue in India. But look at the great syncretic tradition of India, he still has Bhola, Shiva's pet name, in his official name. Well, he is 75 -- I checked his ID to confirm it because he doesn't look 75. 'One meal a day and meditation to calm the mind are the reasons for it,' he says. He looked at peace and joyful about life. I saw a thick wad of money in his wallet. 'Just 10 rupee notes. Won't count for much!' he laughs. 'I'm collecting money for making a little Buddha shrine at my village,' he justifies his collection. Well, all of us are after money for our reasons and I have talked to hundreds of sadhus, most of them are after money to make ashrams and temples. Householders are after it for building houses and buying cars. I hardly see any qualitative difference between the two.

A couple of days ago he was bitten by a dog in the wee hours as he was walking in the street after taking a bath in Ma Ganga. A few hours later I found him standing desolate at his corner with his brass begging bowl. He had tied a strip of cloth at the wound...it was all bloody. A big bite. I hope his Hindu baba adversaries didn't set a dog after him. He said he will have to walk towards the other bridge, almost a kilometre away, because if he goes from here the auto would charge 50 rupees and from there it will be only 10 rupees. But he could hardly walk. I understood that he would delay his treatment because he was in pain and could barely walk. And one needs vaccination at the earliest after the bite. (Why would he still bother so much money even in such a situation? Well, I think baba or no baba, money is a big issue in the world. And like ordinary householders, Babas have every right to think that it's their hard earned money because they have to stand throughout the day to get alms). And He needed vaccination so I hired a scooty to take him to the government hospital, requesting the scooty guy to take him to the concerned block and guide him through the process. By this time he was in much pain and looked all ready to shed this miserable body. "If I die that would be good. This poor body will be shed!' he looked depressed, sad and sullen. 

And the next day I find him all freshened up with three anti rabies injections, one on his left chuttar (as he put it with a feeling of insult and pain) and one each on both arms. But the urge to live and be joyful and meditate had returned. He looked contended and at peace with life. I advised him to carry a stick... maybe that can help him in religious debates and brawls with Hindu Babas as well...

The mendicant with a dog

 

One hand supports the head like a loving pillow...the other fanning the dog to sleep. People got amused and laughed, thinking him to be a crazy baba. To be frank I also thought so. When I returned after a couple of hours, he was still fanning the dog to sleep with the same loving passion. I thought there must be something wrong with the dog otherwise why would it lie so still with closed eyes in broad daylight with hundreds of feet tapping the narrow street. So I sit down to chat. 'Maybe the dog is sick,' I ask. He laughs and points to a big food bowl, 'No Badal ate too much and who won't sleep with fan air and palm to support?' The dog's name is Badal. 'This also is Bhagwan's avatar. If you can't love a dog, how will you love humans, and if you can't love humans, how will you love God,' he elaborates his simple spiritual equation. He was offered to Joona Akshara at an early age. I ask him does he miss his parents sometimes. He cracks a big laugh, 'What a question! He is the biggest Mai Baap!' He brandishes his fan towards Lord Shiva's statue above us. I feel embarrassed. Yes he is under the protection of the biggest Baap!

A real Gau sevak

 

There are sadhus in front of an ashram that serves food in the morning daily. And there are cows also. The sadhus are having the routine sweet sour chit chat while having food. The cows are chewing cud, contended. There are drops of dung around. Then a cute rolly polly baba arrives, his presence silent and peaceful. He has a unique attire, a piece of sackcloth tied like ancient Romans, a wollen cap, and a piece of cloth on the bare shoulder. His left hand isn't visible. To be frank, I'm not sure about its status. It might be missing; it might be tied along his stomach in penance to take this worldly yatra with a single hand. I give fifty fifty chances to both probabilities. 

He has a lovely way of walking, a kind of spirited ease of a child. A trace of smile doesn't leave his face even for a single moment. He is a Mauni baba, so by default his tongue is restful, which in turn avoids unnecessary fuel to the chattering mind. There he comes and starts picking the cow dung with the joyful ease of a child playing on the beach. He uses his free hand to pick up cow dung and drop it into the garden across the street. The street is soon clean. In fact his lovely walk to and fro works like a cosmic broom to clean the air itself. 

There are gau rakshaks who take to violence in the name of holy cows. I would say most of them are people with violent tendencies and take shelter of the mother cow's name to hide their violence. Gau mata doesn't need rakshaks, she needs sevaks, like this lovely baba. 

The baba then cleans his hand under a tap, caresses the cows with the feel of a boy touching something precious. That's when the wagging tongues between the Hindu Babas and the Buddhist monk start the fireworks and before the tongues could handover the work to fists, the joyful mauni baba comes in between and dispels the heat just with his smile, silent nods and gentle wave of hand. It's a lovely feeling just to be present in the presence of someone who is at ease with himself.

Trickster on the banks of Maa Ganga

 

Mutterings from rishikesh: 

A woman ascetic with a brass kamandal tried to plunder money...she approached like a realised mother, all made up of course and asked for money.....she asked food for five of them. 'We are five matajis, so 20 rupees for food for each of us' she says. These are navaratra days, so I give her 100 rupees without bargaining...she probably thinks that I'm a sitting duck for cheating...meanwhile she took a thief's peek into my modest wallet as I took money to give her...I want to move but she puts her hand on my head... trying possibly to play some energy or magical trick ..sort of hypnotic meanouvre so that she could plunder more money...I have enough energies in my head...she starred shivering 😂..'Please take out two notes from your wallet. I take a vow in the name of Ma Ganga that I will give them back,' she says. And already she is tying a mauli dhaga on my wrist asking, 'Are you married?' I'm not interested in her queries about my matrimonial status. 

I don't have change in my wallet but since she has taken a vow in the name of Ganga Maa while standing on her banks, I give her two 500 rupees notes expecting her to return them...the moment the notes landed in her claws she folds them in her fist..the way she holds them makes it sure that they are in her greedy talons not to be returned. Now I realise the tales of thugs who take money and play the magic trick of making it disappear with the clap of a hand. 

I remember an incidence from early youth in the village. A street magician took 100 rupees from my friend and a clap and the money vanished. He had a lovely python and a flute to add to the charm of his street show. Now 100 rupees of those times were a big issue. So we manhandled him, his pagri fell. One guy was just ready to break his flute on his head. That's when the poor magician realised that Jatland isn't suitable for magic tricks. And the money comes out of his gullak. He holds the python's mouth, pries it open, puts his hand in and draws out the money. Imagine the smartness. Magic money goes into the python's mouth!!

'We will go to kedar with the money,' the female thief in saffron says. To me it's not about money. It's about taking a false vow in Ma Ganga's name. I don't know what Ganga Maa thinks of me but I feel I'm Her ardent devotee. I shamed the woman for being a liar, looting money in the name of Ma Ganga. I got really angry and in no nonsense terms asked her to return the money as promised. Somehow she hasn't been able to make the money vanish. Good that she hadn't a python with her. Somehow her trick of making the money vanish failed. Maa Ganga's blessings! 

She gives back one note, like I'm plundering her. I am firmly against such a shame sadhu...so I point my finger at her and asked her to return the other note as well. She is trying to make me feel ashamed for getting angry, for losing control of myself just about money. Why should I be. I'm not a saffron clad saint to be ashamed of my well deserved anger on cheats. With a broken heart she hands back the other note all crushed due to the pressure of her talons. ' I was just checking your manas for money,' she says as if I had failed her test of my desire for worldly things like 500 rupees notes. 

Then she tried to give me a Rudraksh bead. I told her I don't need anything from her. Neither her blessings, nor her bead. I don't want at least from those who tell lies in the name of taking vow of Ganga Maa. Had it been a male sadhu I would have snatched away even the hundred rupees. But these I left with her as a grace mark for her being a woman.

But Maa Ganga knows how to spin her lovely magic and change mutterings into musings.

I'm walking sullenly about cheats on the banks of Maa Ganga. But She is such a kind mother. She knows how to uplift the spirit of Her child. I'm walking in the crowd and suddenly see the autistic girl I wrote a story about...a few years back I saw her with her parents on the banks of Maa Ganga. She looked so unjustifiably deprived of her slice of joy among all that festival aura... and with tears in my eyes I prayed so sincerely for her during my entire stay at that time...and wrote a long story of blessings on her...she is a woman now...I had prayed for the faith and health of her parents so that they could help her in her journey for as long as possible because nobody can take care of a special child like her parents. And there I see them carrying her in a wheel chair in the busy bazaar...she looked healthy and beautiful...she is a young woman now...her parents in good spirits and healthy, happily carrying their responsibility... imagine out of thousands Maa Ganga presented them before me ..to let me know that She remembers my prayers of this family...

The injured bull

 

The real beauty of India. The faith, seva bhav, love. Sadhus and animal welfare volunteers come together to treat the injured horn of a bull. Coming from a farming family I have seen such scenes in my village. When pinced down like this by humans the poor cattle think they are getting slaughtered. I remember that fear in the rolled eyes. Those strong puffs of wind getting saliva and slime on the muzzle. But here the bull is somehow relaxed. Its eyes aren't popping out with fear of death. This I feel is due to the touch of sadhus. There is an assurance of safety, love and care. Their presence makes the bull behave well even in the face of such a painful, scary experience. Its eyes are normal. Its muzzle isn't oozing with slime which a cattle normally does with strong puffs of breathing under such circumstances. The bull seems assured of safety. The touch of caring sadhus. And the touch of caring animal lovers. It's in safe hands. The injured horn is dressed. And the volunteers move away slowly releasing the rope, leaving only the sadhus near it as it gets up. And the bull gets onto its feet with wonderful calm. The sadhus pat it lovingly. 'You are a good boy. Now don't fight too much over girlfriends,' says the young doctor. People laugh. The sadhus guide it to a relatively open space.