The posts on this blog deal with common people who try to stand proud in front of their own conscience. The rest of the life's tale naturally follows from this point. It's intended to be a joy-maker, helping the reader to see the beauty underlying everyone and everything. Copyright © Sandeep Dahiya. All Rights Reserved for all posts on this blog. No part of this blog may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author of this blog.
And
who would triumph these days? Faker than the fake most. Not probably.
Definitely. And who would rule? The fakest among the top fakes. A darkness that
eats the little silver lines of light. That’s its diet. Darkness rushes in from
all sides to eat the tiny slivers of light, just like a flock of goats and
sheep running to nibble a few dry wisps of grass in the desert.
Sometimes
you have to walk to the edge of the roof of your being, your existence—to stare
at the depths below, to gauze where do you stand in life, to evaluate your
position. For security you might decide to step back and be in the little safe
square around you. But sometimes you ought to just give a long, hard look into
the depths below. You evaluate by focusing at your lowest point. The low point
lying there among the dusted ground realities far away from the lofty heights.
And if the call of the journey assures you of the sweet-sour pain of a fall,
but with a reasonable chance of survival, you then just jump and make your path
beyond all confines and fears. You untangle the messed-up spools of the past
lying in the shadows of those low points. That’s when your real journey begins.
The
winds are drifting. That’s their nature. The fragrance of rose from this side.
The scent of jasmine from that. And other lovely smells from other directions.
So if you happen to be someone’s rose at the moment, don’t be haughty and vain
about it. The wind is merely blowing from your side at the moment. Just that,
nothing more. And if we simply, naturally raise our nostrils to the wind to
inhale, it’s plain normalcy at work. That’s our nature. We are needy. We need
fresh fragrance to beat the routine boredom-born odor of life. But then the
winds shift as well. That’s their nature. Now that special person, the apple of
your eyes, inhales the scented breeze coming from a different flower.
So
many destinies are poorly scrawled, almost illegibly, by adverse circumstances.
Millions of meaningless destinies—except being meaningful in pain and
suffering—shaped by wars, natural hazards, poverty, social strife. Destinies
decided by the random casting of the cosmic dice—just being at the wrong place
at the wrong time. And amid all the sad scrawling, a few nice lines, legible,
the chosen few with an apparent meaning. A few people at the right place, at
the right time as well. They serve as beacons of hope even though there are
daggers of jealousy thrown at them by the poor and the destitute. They are the
lighthouse in the dark, choppy sea, beckoning the struggling, gasping swimmers
to join their league.
As the
22-month-long pregnancy nears its end, the female African elephant starts
eating Boraginaceae plant leaves to
induce labor. Has anyone taught the elephants about it? No. There is natural
intelligence. It pervades around in sync with natural laws. It guides natural
processes across the species.
Probably
we saw the lasts of big swarms of the soft-bodied beetle that flies with a
glow—fireflies. Their habitats declined and the fireflies that spun the dreamy
webs of imagination, poems, stories and parables vanished from the nights. What
do they need? They just need that which used to come naturally with
nights—darkness in the moist, shady bushes during the monsoon days. The days
would be bright, musty and green and the dark nights had fireflies. Now when
the lights remain on all night even in the villages, spotting a firefly has
become a rarity. Too much light pollution. I think contrary to our negative
impressions about darkness, it must be washing lots of lighted pollution that
we unleash on a daily basis.
The
fireflies dance using their bioluminescence, the males and females looping with
their own types of bio-sparks. Aren’t they such beautiful dancing lights! When
there is too much of bright artificial light, their bioluminescence becomes
ineffective in the males and the females spotting each other.
The
vegetation is vanishing, the nights are losing darkness and so the firefly
love-festivals are gone too—almost. The agricultural fields use insecticides on
a large scale. Where does it leave any place for this soft beetle? For those
who might care to listen, let me inform you that when a firefly boy and girl go
on a love-dancing date, they enjoy feasting upon mosquitoes on the dining
table. So those who have had dengue and malaria should have empathy for them.
A
broken doorway. But the interior of the house still safe, welcoming and cozy. In
contrast, an illustrious, ornate, imposing gateway, aglitter with form, design,
authority, shiny paint and much-much more. But the interior broken, stale,
unwelcoming, hitting you in the face with its unfriendliness. That’s how most
of the people are, the latter category I mean. Brand new clothes, stylish
haircuts, designer glasses, costly perfumes, fat attitudes, sophisticated
looks, illustrious footwear, daunting language—massively adorned gateways to
their personality. All focus on the superficial, introductory gateway to the
their self; entire energy and resources spent on the surface varnish. But the
interior—the real self—poor and neglected. The door of a palace enclosing a
slum within. They would hit you with selfish venom at the littlest provocation.
The first category are rare individuals—a poor-looking door protecting a palace
inside. An oasis in the desert. Soulful. With a loving, healing presence. It
needs mother nature to have thousands of the other type of people to bloom,
nurture, protect one such person.
We are
heavily laden. We carry loads of guilt, shame, fears, secrets, judgments, hate,
jealousies, malice. Sometimes it feels like we would collapse if not for the
minor trace elements, the uplifting brief feelings of joy and happiness. They
are almost weightless, feathery, floating; something like anti-gravity. They
mysteriously manage to counterbalance the tremendous load we carry.
Most
of us are imprisoned. We are the prisoners behind the walls of fears and the
wires, bars and grills of the supposed and assumed securities to ward off those
fears. The wall of fear is the mammoth panic of death and the unknown; anything
we can’t see beyond the normal perception field. The wires, bars, barbed mesh and
grilled fence comprise the rules and conventions; the tools of collective
securities; the expected; the commonality.
Sometimes in our impatience to create the new—too hurriedly—grafting it over the old, we bring down even the settled old along with the unsettled new. Certain fundamental laws are broken
in this storm. The naked passion, blind impulse and uncontrolled force are
hardly the reasonable tools to forge something new.
So
build slowly. The past is a platform, a foundation, a book of lessons about
what to do and what to avoid. It’s a set of good and bad, but a box of lessons
nonetheless. So handle the old with care while you go for making the new.
Impatience with the past is a blasting revolution. Yes, it destroys the past
quickly, but it’s very chaotic. It doesn’t lay a foundation. In the name of
foundation it goes for repression, killings, deweeding. It crosses all limits,
uproots everything in the name of change.
It’s a beautiful sight in the morning. A loving precursor to the poem that would follow soon after it. The love dance of a peacock on my terrace. I’m the excited peeping tom looking from the terrace room.
The
surrendering spectacle unfolds. The love-lynched bird spreading the wings of desire;
swaying the fantail of passion to catch her, the peahen, in his airy love-loops.
She stands still, full of wonder about this colorful show, the buzzing-humming
shake of his spread out fantail. Her time stops as if snared by the net of
love.
His
colorful invitation. Her curiosity, silence, acceptance; a space for the
manifestation of the nonbeing to acquire the shape of a little colorful being.
And of course the unnecessary worldly noise that is always seeking to spoil the
love game, the futile barking of the puppies in the street who find it a nice
case study to learn to bark.
Full
riot of life and colors embraced by spring flowers. Then in boiling summers,
the flowers wilt, as if fighting to keep the memories of spring away. The dying
petals seem struggling to get a whiff of long-forgotten smells. The force of
disintegration meanwhile eroding big chunks of whatever is still present, the
faded smile and feeble scent.
The
dying flowers struggling, still hoping to build a bridge that would allow them
to come to terms with this seemingly tragic transformation—spring’s luxuriant
kiss to summer’s sun-burnt lips.
It
looks the flowers died; but they changed to seeds. The dry, crumbling specks,
wispy and hairy, will be scattered by the wind. And a tiny hairy speck of seed,
carrying the entire code of flowery luxuriance, flows and flies and lands at
some place to again blossom one fine day in another lovely spring.
‘Where
is death in this?’ I wonder. Brothers, life is crammed with symbolism of the
eternal truth. It’s a book of very easy codes. To read them we don’t need
sophistication of mind; we simply need simplicity of heart. It’s a very lovely
exercise to try to learn and read nature’s book of symbolism.
Where
does such a weird dream come from? I’m clueless. President Trump is working as
an electrician in my depilated room. It’s the old style, laborious electric
wire fitting he is working on. A lurching bamboo ladder laid against the wall,
he has a hammer and a chisel in his heavy hands, making a little hole in the
plastered upper wall just under the ceiling to fix little wooden bits in the
grooves to nail narrow wooden strips on them. These were used to bind wires on
them during the good old times.
The
room has dusty green, peeling lime-wash coating on the walls. A green dust has
settled on his lovely orange hair. Me and my father—who departed 15 years
back—are watching him with intimidating curiosity. He takes a break and climbs
down the ladder. We are embarrassed. Surprisingly, President Trump doesn’t seem
offended or angry. I mumble apologetically, ‘You are the most powerful man on
earth. I don’t know how do we land in your life. But I see the tough phase of
the task is over.’ Frankly speaking I don’t have any clue as to how such a
thing lands in my subconscious to surface as a weird dream.
This
existence is like a fiery dragon whizzing in a circle. It eats the same
excreted stuff that comes out of its tail after the previous food is consumed
in the guts for fuelling its fiery dash. The excreta then becomes the same
stuff that was previously eaten by the time the head comes circling again at
that point. At each point on the circle, what it now eats was formerly left out
of the tail after consuming as fuel for its journey. Nothing added, nothing
subtracted. But still such a rollercoaster ride! The question arises, ‘Who set
the ball rolling initially?’
When
chaos is unleashed in the name of pseudo-security, pride and supremacy, the
rulers take falsehoods, lies and dirty tricks to unprecedented levels. The
ideal citizens then are the ignorant fools who can be customized to make them
blind followers through fake news, passionate narratives and twisted history.
The raised and ruffled passions divide the society. Falsehoods rule and become
the new-age dharma. Under such conditions, the one who has a mind of his own, a
simple man who isn’t blinded by the sandy blizzards and can see the reality,
becomes an enemy.
Truth
is taken as a sin as per this new dharma. Those who know the truth are viewed
with suspicion by the rulers. And out of these, those who speak the truth are
the outright enemies of the set-up.
The
rulers aren’t afraid of the plain thugs and criminals because they are the foolest
among the fools. It’s a simple law and order problem. In fact these bigger
fools become great tools to be used by the rulers. So those who speak truth are
the real terrorists for the rulers. They are systematically penalized. That was
how it was in the past. That’s how it’s now.
I was
expecting a pollution peak on Diwali night. Everything has been politicized and
everything within politics has been communalized. I saw lots of social media
content giving a clarion call to the Hindus to celebrate Diwali with clanging,
banging gusto, especially when others can kill animals on their festival, so
why shouldn’t we slaughter the clean air on ours. It had its effect. Despite a ban
on the firecrackers in the Delhi NCR, these were sold in open, purchased with a
right to unrestricted religious celebration and banged and burst with yelling
enthusiasm. I also love to celebrate Diwali as a Hindu, but I care for our
lungs as well, especially the elders.
The
night was breezy which dispersed the pollutants. In the morning there was no
eye-burning smog. A cool breezy morning with tolerable level of pollution. Elated
over this I carry my Diwali celebration into the countryside with a walk in
solitude. Many parts of India are celebrating Diwali today because the lunar
calendar overlaps two days of the sun calendar. It gives us the option to
celebrate our festival on two days. Good for business; good for the people as
well, enabling them to carry extra festive spirit.
It’s a
bright day, the horizon slightly smoggy in the distance. Mother nature spreads
a breezy cool hand like a windscreen wiper to take away the pollutants. A
perfect time to appreciate Celosia
argentea or Plumed cockscomb blooms in a corner. All it needs is a bit of
sunshine, dewy moisture, cool breeze and no human foot intruding, and mother
nature offers a lovely bouquet of smiles to a solitary walker with poetic
sensitivities. We humans might consider them as weeds but they are a perfect
breakfast table for a flock of moths who are high on nectar. These are lovely
finger-shaped creamy blooms with pink spires on the top. Plumed cockscomb
indeed—fluffy with a slightly curved creamy erection, milky white head topped
with a pink spire.
There
is a lonely date palm standing in the empty harvested fields. Dry paddy crofts
too low and lifeless to give it any sense of clothing and company. It must be
missing the company of its brothers. Sadly, there will soon be a world when the
trees will be barcoded and numbered. No worries. Let’s make the most of what is
left. Thankfully we are the generation that is lucky to see unnumbered and
uncoded trees.
In a
corner there are golden shades of ripe paddy waiting to be harvested—a prelude
to nice, luscious aroma on your table.
I
stand under a blackberry tree and stare into the bluish haze in the east. A
trickle of sunrays plays on my face giving me an insight:
There
is light everywhere and darkness alongside. You have to position yourself in
life to have your portion of light rays and your little puddle of shadow.
The
zero. The imperfect. The perfect. Three basic concepts which the mind can
hypothesize in trying to understand the cosmic equation. The imperfect is
forever striving to become the perfect. That’s the basic functional element in
the play of existence, the leela. The
imperfect running timelessly and endlessly after the perfect becomes the
infinity. The infinity is just the ever-persistent, eternal impulse of the
finite to become perfect. And perfection is impossible because one point of
apparent perfection is just a transient state, a mere beginning of a new stage
of the imperfect looking to further its path to perfection. The flow. And
infinity collapses to zero, the emptiness.
It’s
Diwali, the festival of lights. The two parijat
trees in the yard have carpeted the earth below their canopies with so many
flowery drops as to make it a flowered floor. What celebration! The rains have
been good and the plants, especially tulsi,
have acquired a bushy jungle shape. The tailorbird parents have their hatchling
out, a greenish tailless funny guy almost as big as its parents. It hops around
the leafy tangle during its post-nest training phase. It’s a mischievous guy. I
saw it running after a good-behaved elderly Indian robin.
Everything
is perception-based at this level of existence. So this particular section of
the yard is the tailorbirds’ house, just like I have the same perception due to
being born in the house. They deny my entry to their section. They raise a
brain-hole-drilling din the moment I reach the spot. The wire-tail swallow
couple does the same. They are agile fighter-plane type fliers. They dart with
chipping sounds, coming dangerously close to my head whenever I happen to be
near their mud nest on the ceiling in the barn verandah. I understand their
position. We humans are also darting around with angry chipping sounds,
insecure and afraid of losing our position, interests and stakes.
The white-browed
fantail flycatcher is a distinguished bird having a white forehead with a black
strip running from top to the nape, blackish top and milky white underside.
It’s very lively and flicks and spreads its white-edged tail quite frequently.
With its long broad white eyebrows, it flits around almost tirelessly.
Flaunting white spots on its throat, it fans its tail, flicks its wings, giving
quick hunting dashes midair. Fleas beware! It’s wonderful to have a pair of
flycatchers in your yard. I love them for their midair antics and lively
attitude. They look playing all through the day. These playfully restless birds
consume so much energy due to this tireless physical activity that the entire
day is spent in catching fleas midair. Can I ask for more? Make your hobby your
profession. Like they do their midair antics while going with the profession of
survival—playing and gathering food going side by side.
There
is an icing on the cake as well—they aren’t too scared of my presence. Their
confiding nature allows me to stand a few feet away and enjoy their fun as a
spectator. Then there is cherry on top of icing—their song. It’s a melodious
song comprising six to eight notes, ascending, sometimes descending. Sometimes
they stop it midway, leaving you craving for the entire performance.
Both
of them look the same but with the spirit of an ornithologist one can spot the
difference—the female is slightly paler with browner head, while the male is
black with greenish gloss. I had to do a bit of research to find out which of
them is doing this tireless exercise in front of the little old car parked in
retirement mode in the yard. No wonder it happens to be the girl in the pair!
Who else loves a mirror so much?
The
car is 21 years old and deserves graceful retirement as a vintage souvenir in
the yard of a small-time rural poet. After all, it was with me during the
challenging and complex cluster of life and events during my urban innings in
editorial jobs. With our limited capabilities, both of us suited each other
really well. Now it becomes the dressing table for the female flycatcher. She
is such a narcissist. She spends her days ogling at her reflection in the rearview
and window glasses.
It’s a
rural set-up, so there is no problem of food, I mean fleas. The humans to fleas
ration is infinitely in favor of the latter. She can continue ogling
coquettishly at her reflection and take little bites of food as the fleas naturally
happen to be within the range of her dressing table, dressing car rather. Such
tireless flapping of wings requires lots of food. It means less fleas in the
yard of a poet. I note that she drops her extras quite frequently. So cleaning
the bird drops on my little souvenir at the day end is the service charge I
have to pay.
She
thus is a homely girl. Her husband, as can be expected, goes outside to loaf
around. But he returns quite frequently to check on her. When he disturbs her
dressing-car time she gives an angry, agitated, grating chuck…chuck…chuck…chuckrr reprimand. The moment he starts disturbing her self-loving
ogling at her reflection, she throws these irritated notes and shifts to the
other vehicle, a bit new and a tiny bit bigger than the older one, which seems
to be her favorite. I hope she isn’t fed up with this guy—or suspects him of
double dating during his sorties outside the yard—and has fallen under the
illusion that a handsome prince is imprisoned inside the car and thus goes
calling from all sides, asking it to come out.
When
the plant is happy, it gives you a flower. When the tree is happy, it gives you
good fruits and shade. When the sky is happy, it gives you rain, sunshine,
shade and prismatic play of clouds. When the birds are happy, they give you a
song.
What
do you do when you are happy? Think it over brother. You too are no less than
any of these. You too give your smile, sympathy, healing touch on a shoulder, a
bit of clarity, some kindness, a tear of loving kindness, a little bit of
helping hand to someone fallen. You open your treasure when you are happy. I know
we can’t be happy all the time. We have our off times when we fret, fume, snort
and get sullen. Then we automatically close the vaults of our treasure. Happiness
can’t be maintained forever, but we can keep it in mind. That’s an option. We
can lure it back from the secret hiding place it retreats into after briefly
spraying sunshine in our life.
There
are times when you even hate yourself so much that you don’t even want to look
at yourself and turn the mirror to the wall. No problem. Don’t worry too much. There
will be more happy stories on another day. Just remember this.
Jump
from the pinnacle of your loneliness. It’s a nice height to go for a dive.
Sometimes standing there, mulling over your bruises gets you in a sadistic
attachment to them. They give you a sweet-sour itch. It’s on the surface—a big,
spacious expansion on the outer layer. It doesn’t even teach you much. It’s
shallow and shallow teachers aren’t good guides. Even if the little niggling
thing—that grasps the outer layer of your attention and fuels your
loneliness—turns to a scar because of a fall after the dive. You at least break
the stalemate; you leave that point. You might get a bleeding scar instead of a
mere bruise. It’s but an avenue for the pent-up darkness to come out. A door
opens to the soul. Earlier it was a mere grilled, meshed window to the body.
Yes, it will be a bit more painful, the opening of this door. But then light
comes in. This is your little penance. This isn’t self-inflicted injury. This
is healing. This teacher is deeper; will give you profounder lessons. The scar
will be healed; its imprint on your body a kind of trophy earned during the
journey.
