The sneeze which topples the snuff

There is a cosmic law of just being, of things and phenomena floating effortlessly in the graviltyless space-time continuum. Certain events and occurrences just happen, naturally, effortlessly, without any fuss, needing no pushing or cajoling. Harmony thrives on such effortlessness. It sustains life, it retains the cosmic balance, it nurtures the eternity. You may have a supposition that after taking a pinch of snuff powder, one sneezes. Well, you must have seen many old people doing that, or even experienced yourself. Well, snuff gets one sneeze. Agreed. But only as long as a free ‘effect follows the cause’ principle is applied in the natural form. Smallest interjections from mind will topple the scale. This universe loves its harmonious sequence of cause and effect. Tamper it with your conscious meddling, it will repel the transgression. Charles Darwin did an experiment. He called ten snuff powder users and asked them to take pinch of snuff and then sneeze. He put a gold coin in front of each of them as a reward if they sneezed after taking the snuff. On any other day snuff and sneeze would follow as natural companions. But not today. Today there was a forced will to win the gold coin in between. The snuff users became so eager, and consequently super-conscious, to get the sneeze that the natural balance between the cause and effect was broken. They won’t get the sneeze. Their faces contorted in all directions at funniest angles, their eyes watered like anything, but the accursed sneeze, which came hurtling down so effortlessly every day, will not come. Certain natural things are better left alone as simple occurrences without our stone-pelting the sequence without super-conscious, egoistic meddling. Sharpen your natural instincts, allow them to guide you, trust in them, and be a follower. There are lot many human affairs where we can meddle with our brain games.

Walk slowly and reach your goal with a smile; you will beat the fastest runner

The moment you grasp the meaning and purpose of your life, you become indispensable for the scheme of things around. You become a requirement for this whole universe. You are no longer a burden for this cosmos to drag on. You just don’t survive accidentally. Yours becomes a planned journey, shaping and reshaping the environment not just for meeting your end, but also carrying the effects that go onto touch many lives around. The sea cannot survive without its tiny drop. Suppose a drop goes missing, the sea gets a hole in its heart and it just cannot miss its drop. Similarly, this universe cannot sustain the hole left by you. It sustains by you as much as you sustain by it. The only condition being that you live consciously, that you know what you are doing, that you pick an option only after deliberating over it. From chance living to well-meant steps purposeful for the self and the larger humanity, all it takes is a small realization. Just look back and see the trail of decisions you have taken in life. How many of these were taken consciously, you being fully aware of the range of options? How many of these were just pushed on you by the random happenings and chance occurrences? Unfortunately, a vast majority of our options are born of random throws by chance factors and we just grabbing some involuntarily. And a life dictated by uncalculated, random options and opportunities, hits and mis-hits ends in a confusing travel across the endless twists, turns, U-turns and back outs from dead ended streets like in the puzzle game. We get wasted and wearied in endless turns, re-turns and U-turns, always pushed on by the random factors that happen to spin out of the lot. No wonder, even after travelling a whole lifetime, we are almost at the point of start. We feel we haven’t done anything at all. It’s the puzzling zigzag. It cannot be called a path leading to your destiny. Across the serpentine criss-crossing and entangled turns of random paths and choices, there are most suitable paths laid out for all of us. All we need to do is to start living consciously. Walk slowly but mindfully. You may see others hurtling fast on the racetrack around you, raising dust, crashing into sidelines, shouting with trophies at some corners, but mind you, no journey is complete and meaningful if one doesn’t feel contentment at the end. No journey across the blizzard of accidental turns can result in the peace that you are looking for at the end of the day. So plan your journey even if it means walking slowly. You can even delay your onslaught on the exams or other important tasks of life by a year if you decide to go into self reflection, weighing your abilities and limitations, look at the competition. It’s better to watch from a distance first. It’s better to walk slowly if you know what you are doing. Mindless dash towards the finish line has no meaning at all. Stop if you have been running. Pause if you have been mindlessly allowing yourself to be held by the collar by the monster called life. Sit down if you have been standing for too long. And then look around and think. Look at the zigzag pattern of your mindless run so far. The actual distance covered will surely be very short. Walk slowly like a wise man. A wise man walking slowly will still beat a reckless sprinter at the end of the day. It’s better to walk slowly to the finish-line, with your breath still under control, your legs still able to carry you. The end becomes meaningful, preparing you for the other journey. Running out of breath to the end line, and crashing straightaway has no meaning. This is no victory. This is nor the destination. It’s not meeting the goal. It simply means collapsing. The whole journey turns meaningless. Victory means being able to smile after reaching the destination. So stop, look back, see the mindless work and the stampede, pause for a moment, look ahead and walk to your sweet goal with a smile on your lips. You become a winner instantly.

Last in its lineage, the grand Mogul, the peacock

Rain-washed green has painted the countryside. Nature seems to have been besotted with only one colour on its palette, bold green. It’s very soothing to the eyes, and more so to the spirits. Trees look like they will survive mankind’s onslaught against nature. Clouds unfurl their sails across the sky and moist wind creeps into any nook corner that may still be dry. Monsoon is going well after all.

The fields around my village are splashing with as much green paddy as possible. Raise your eyes in any direction and you will see a green sea. Monsoonal sun across the corners of flying lumps of clouds gives the best glimpses of nature's bounty. But the travelling shadows also try to cover up silent, invisible man-made tragedies. Farmers have been cornered like never before. One day they are forced to dump tomatoes in roadside holes, the fruits of their labour not getting more than INR 1/Kg. The other day the price may go as high as INR 80/Kg in metros. Driven by intensive agriculture, born of costly inputs and decreasing landholdings, farmers just mindlessly dump poison in all forms of pesticides, weedicides and insecticides. So this lush green is a merciless stroke of brush on the canvas of nature, swiping away the natural world of many insects, worms, reptiles and rodents that make nature holistic and encompassing in its game of give and take across food chains. So guys, its just green paddy and poisoned soil below.

Peacocks survive on insects and reptiles in the fields. Nothing is left for them to feed upon, so food-less where would they go. A peacock's plumage swinging to gentle breeze in open surroundings of the countryside is a treat, and we were lucky to witness it countless times during our childhood. Now the last or second last generation of these destitutes, who rarely get an insect in fields, has landed with an airy resentment in the village. An irony: the poison giver is somehow better than the poison itself, at least in the short turn. In the foliage of neem and acacia trees, they just pew out their miseries. To the infants and younger lot, it gives a chance to get acquainted with the national bird's sound, and of course help them in learning the initials of human language.

My mom has an almost regular bird visitor, who perches upon the neem in our courtyard and pews out its begging song as if pleading, ‘Mai Roti do!' While she dispenses her routine chores across the yard, it continues to draw her attention. Roti delayed, it is forced to come down and enter the inner reaches of the house just to make his presence felt through his luxuriant plumage. Once roti pieces are thrown before him, it has to chuck up the offerings as fast as possible because crows line up in their accusing harsh tones, blaming him for being a transgressor who has infringed upon their rights. Crows are very clever. Some of them get behind his plumage and take a pick at his feathers to distract him. One defensive look behind and a few pieces are stolen by the other crows waiting in the wings. I call it the 'beggar peacock', my mother does not like the title though.

If that is the fate of the national bird, it’s hard to imagine the condition of others. Looking at this marvel of nature, whom mom sometimes accuses of being ungrateful -- when it comes without its plumage, all the feathers having been shed somewhere, and mom cursing it for being so mindless to waste them somewhere and not shed them in the courtyard -- I just feel sad on account of the fact that may be it is the last or at the most second last in its lineage.

Kill a mouse like a mouse only; not like a lion

He has done it again. The feeling of victory is carried by the air around his swollen breast. These are the steps of a warrior. A victorious warrior walking triumphantly can literally create an earthquake with his stomping and swagging steps. The King was effusive in praise as he again emerged as the most skillful swordsman of the kingdom. The Lord’s words are ringing in his ears as he steps down from his chariot. Holding the most coveted sword in the state, he walks down the flower-bordered path to the entrance of his impressive mini palace. He has been awarded and rewarded so many times that he has lost a trail of his swordsmanship.        

The competition has been long, tedious and tough. He bears many cuts as a testimony to the arduous path to the trophy. He is tired and wants some immediate rest. There is group of female servants who run to help him ease up. He just dismisses them as if he doesn’t even feel they are around. He wants to soak each and every moment of the victory. He wants to retain his scars for some time. It keeps the smell of victory nearer for some time.

It’s getting dark. A restful night is round the corner. He is belching. His stomach is full with numerous delicacies the King had ordered in the royal kitchen to celebrate his victory. He ate and drank to his victorious self. He is full with food and victory. He doesn’t put off his robe for the night. He decides to go to sleep like he is now, just to carry the aura the next day as well.

The sword but needs to be placed on the holder on the wall. It’s a sanctimonious ritual. He loves and reveres his sword. As he is moving to place his sword, he sees a mouse on the cushioned chair by the wall. The tiny trespasser is twitching its muzzle, almost like poking fun at him. He gets angry. How dare a mouse keep its presence for longer than required in front of him? He expects the little thing to scurry away at the mere sound of his step. His expectation is scuttled.

His ego gets a dent. By natural instinct his hand grams the holster of his sword. But then he shakes his head in irritation for even thinking of using his sword against such a tiny irritant.

“Just the sound of air through my nostrils should be sufficient to scare this idiot!” he thinks.

He has let out a few noisy breaths. The mouse but is relaxed on the silky cushion like it is a special guest. The champion swordsman’s irritation is turning to anger. His hand is itching to just finish it off in one masterstroke. But won’t that it be an insult to his sword? To use it against such a tiny creature. He moves on to place his sword at its place expecting that his crossing the room will scare away the tiny foe. As he turns back, he is surprised to see the mouse still there. Unmoved and relaxed like the room belongs to it.

“This is too much! This little one is inviting sure death!” he claps and expects the mouse to literally faint with fear.

It all but normal to expect a mouse to be most cowardly creature. It is linked to so many tales of chicken-heartedness. The mouse is still unmoved.

“This bloody tick of a mouse seems to be deaf and dumb!” he mutters.

The defiance seems to be a challenge to him. He picks up the wooden practice sword and waves it around hoping the airy swirls will be sufficient to scare the mouse and run for its life. His expert swings in air in front of the mouse fail to budge the tiny opponent. Now he is flabbergasted.

“What the hell! Does it want to commit suicide or what? How can I put a dark spot on my heroism by even accepting challenge from something that will be buried under my shit?” he is offended.

The things that take a detour from the normal of course unsettle us. He moves towards the cushioned chair hoping the cowardly creature will scuttle away, twitching its tail. They are face to face. The mouse isn’t moving. Now it’s getting into his nerves. He feels like putting it off in one strike. But then to stoop so low to start accepting challenges from mice. After all he has slayed mighty warriors in bloody combats. He seems intent to give the mouse more chances to run for safety, accept its defeat and go as things go normally in the world.

He puts the lower end of the wooden sword on the cushion just inches away from the small rival. The mouse is still unmoved. Now it’s really eating into his nerves. He is in no mood to pass off such things as jokingly one offs. The bursts of clapping and shouting sloganeering is thundering in his ears.

“And now this bloody mouse! Go little one go, don’t mess with my patience. I don’t want to put a blot on my bravery by being a mouse slayer.”

He feels like cutting it in two even with the wooden sword in an expert stroke. But killing mouse with his artistically bravest of swordsmanship.

“This little nuisance is worthy of being killed with a stick. Poor mouse,” he raises his practice sword to hit back like a stick.

But to strike a sword, even if it is a wooden practice wooden one, like a stick is an insult to the holy art of swordsmanship. His hands just give in. He cannot do it. He cannot kill it like a sword, he cannot use his sword like a stick. A mouse is too lowly a creature to be killed by him. His mind is full of so many ideas that he even gets panicked for a moment regarding his dilemma.

“This suicidal chit of a bird-drop needs a suitable punishment. I cannot bring myself so low to turn a demon slayer to a mouse slayer. The fate of a mouse is to bee slaughtered by a cat. Yaa that seems justified and natural. And this little rascal will pee at the sight of a cat. The little devil.”

He is thinking of suitable punishment to the mouse without compromising on his sense of heroism. It’s fair between a cat and a mouse. He agrees on this and already has the instrument of punishment in his mind. The fat, well pampered cat of the wealthy man in neighborhood. He has a sadistic sense prevail over him as he visualizes the cat chasing the shitty little one, putting its teeth around its soft fur, and mowing down the squealing bastard. His hands are itching to grab this moment from the space-time continuum of happenings.

A servant is sent to fetch the cat from the neighboring house. Now the cat is listening to the exaggerated version of what happened in the warrior’s palace.

“Just imagine the guts. The devil is not scared of anything. Not even the bravest soldier of the land. Not that he can kill it. Of course he can. But he doesn’t want to put a blot on his name by being a mouse slayer on the day he has been crowned the state champion. But this little piece of arrogance by the tiny creature has forced him to mete out the harshest punishment to a mouse. And that is to be hunted down by a cat.”

The cat is listening. It doesn’t sound normal. There is something in it. It doesn’t seem like any other cat and mouse encounter.

“Of course it means it must be some special mouse. Otherwise why would master take all this trouble to look out for a cat? He could have taken rest after the hard fought victory,” the servant is nailing it down.

The well fed and amply pampered cat is becomes serious. Many things are playing in its mind. Its paws aren’t itching to slice through the soft fur. Its mind is clogged with calculations. It seems a daunting task. It doesn’t appear like any other cat mouse encounter like she has done hundreds of times in life. The poor mouse scuttling away at the mere sight of the cat, the cat preying upon, a minor one-sided scuffle and the inevitable happening.

The merchant is very happy over the prospect of being of some service to the King’s prized fighter. Holding his dear cat he walks with a swag to the scene of the looming encounter. With each step the poor cat is becoming more and more conscious of the fight. The news has spread like fire and people are toeing after. The procession moves.

“The mouse is definitely some special devil otherwise why would these humans make such a show of it,” the cat’s mind is getting bombarding with countless random thoughts.

Her judgment is getting clouded. All the natural sequence of hunting down a mouse is getting stretched to miles with so many distinct steps. And she has to face a mouse that stood up to the mightiest warrior of the land. Thoughts are randomly scurrying across its head, these are now changing to numerous apprehensions, these in turn are eating her natural inborn confidence in doing a small task like killing a mouse. Today it’s not about hunger. It’s about a challenge. The cat is fully fed. Still it has to kill with the impunity like it is the hungriest on the planet.

“What stance I should take before preying upon, and from what distance it would be safest to pounce upon? Should I put up a fierce avatar with my hair standing up, tail taut, and mewing and growling like a tiger? No. Yes. But wouldn’t a cool approach will ensure a better shot at the aim? Yes. No, because the idiot may take it as lack of character in me. Should I, shouldn’t I??” each word from the people around is putting out questions after questions in its mind.

At the end of it the cat feels like they are taking her to the altar to sacrifice her.

“Who knows it may even be a devil dog impersonating as a mouse!” she has completely forgotten about its experience in killing mice.      

By the time they reach the warrior’s house, it’s terrible pandemonium around. The cat’s head is buzzing with thousand questions, thoughts, fears, apprehensions and what not. It can barely see what is happening around. Now she is in a total daze, not able to think at all. It’s not about killing a mouse, it’s about defeating THE MOUSE.

Before she realizes she finds herself placed at a distance from the mouse. So many eyes are prying over her. Her natural instinct, her inbuilt dexterity, her inherent skill, her easy-going call to eat a mouse has abandoned her. The cat is conscious of the effort it will take to dash. It tries to think, but its mind has gone empty. Abandoned by all conviction, it sits there indecisively. It’s puzzled beyond measure.

It’s a blind’ futile dash. With a very awkward movement it leaps. The mouse coolly shifts to its right by a few inches. The cat doesn’t know what is happening. It goes rolling like a lump of earth thrown aimlessly. It hits it head on the wall, loses balance and a brass utensil falls on it from the windowsill. There is noise. It’s senses are in a riot of panic. Yaa, it’s not some cat. It’s devil and I am attacked. The cat runs away for its life. The mouse looks curiously at the peoples standing at a distance.

Well, that’s what happens when mouse become THE MOUSE.          

The news spreads far and wide. It’s no ordinary mouse. It doesn’t scamper away at the sight of swords and cats. The King’s still more pampered cat listens with its innards shivering with fear. What if they send me? What if even I fail? I will lose all this royal luxury. Lost in the painful reverie, the poor thing doesn’t even realize before the onerous duty of dispensing justice has been handed over to her.

Now there is bigger hoopla. Lot more people are talking about the incident. There is more noise. And consequently thicker are the clouds of apprehension in the royal cat’s mind.

“It’s not scared of a sword, nor of cat, and now the presumably the finest cat in the state is summoned to get it done. It cannot be a mouse even if it impersonated like a mouse.”

Simple mouse is becoming a still larger THE MOUSE with each step they cover towards the place of the incident. The royal cat seems surrendered to a doomed fate. They appear like enemies who are pushing her to her doom and fall from royal grace. Her worst days are coming. There has been a shift in her destiny. The winds of misfortune are pounding the fabric of her well pampered self. Chronic panic has set in. She thinks of everything expect the art and craft of the natural art of killing a mouse.

The royal cat was in a far bigger dilemma by the time they put her in front of the defiant mouse who seems hell bent upon retaining the seat like it was the crown of the universe. The cat is shaking with nervous excitement. It goofs up even more miserably. The mouse just jumps to its left and doesn’t move. The cat seems to have wasted all weapons in its armory.

Even before the fight she has been thinking of the aftermaths. How the king will laugh at her and kick her impudently. She is thinking of the life away from the disgrace. More than killing the mouse, its mind is plagued with thoughts of where to run away from the disgrace. So having missed the aim, the cat runs away from the scene of its disgrace.

The news blasts through. There is an unheard of mouse which is not afraid of cats and swords. Almost everybody appears unwilling to put his cat through the ordeal and the impending disgrace. Nobody showed eager to be called the owner of the cat which couldn’t kill even a mouse.

An ascetic stayed in his hut outside the state capital. The task of accomplishing the deed reached his doorstep. He listened to them patiently. There were long and wordy narration of the incident. It was made to appear larger than life. People looked overawed of what happened. The ascetic’s demeanour was calm. He listened to the tales with a smile on his lips. His kind eyes shone with a divine understanding. Knowingly he looked into the eyes of his cat. The cat too appeared unperturbed.

“Go and do what you always do with the same attitude and mindset. A mouse is a mouse. Remember. Always. Everywhere. And expect a mouse to be just the same mouse you have eaten so many times in the past,” he pats his cat affectionately.

The molehill has become the biggest mountain. It is being talked like nothing else. It beats the pulsating humdrum of a thoroughfare. Everything seems to have been pushed into the background. Everybody is talking about it. But the cat is beyond all this hoopla. Its mind is the same like on any other occasion.

They place the cat in front of the mouse. It twitches its tale with the familiar conviction. There is surety in its movement. It holds its head at a form predatory angle. It beats the mouse in the dozing game and buries its teeth into it. The mouse squeaks. People cheer around. A great thing has been accomplished.

“A mouse is a mouse only. Why burden your mind with so many things which a poor mouse himself can never relate to in the wildest of his dreams,” the ascetic is telling the people who give his cat to him.

The cat has eaten the mouse and mews contentedly. There wasn’t anything complicated about it. It was a straight matter torn and skewed into numerous phantom shapes and appearances. And when that happens, even a simple mouse becomes THE MOUSE.

Cut your butter knife through the lump of iron

There is a fountain of happiness inside. It lies dormant under the self-imposed crust of fears, illusions, assumptions and ignorance. You have to unearth it. You have to remove the burdensome crust which weighs you down like a beast of burden. You just pull ahead like a coal and soot laden steam engine, lifelessly, mechanically. You have to realize you are more than a beast of burden and a steam engine. Pierce through the crust’s increasing thickness. You have to dig deeper. Stop, take rest and get a sense of what you are doing. Again you have to pick up your pickaxe. You cannot afford too much rest. Rest lies at the destination. There it is a factor of eternity. Once you reach there, running and resting will become the same. Hit hard. Let its iron run deep into the earthen wall that separates you from you real potential, your destiny, your destination for which Mother Nature has shaped and nurtured you. Dig deep. Look within. Life isn’t worth living just as a series of accidental occurrences bobbing you like a wooden wreck tossed by stormy waves. It’s about calculated, well planned steps and moves. Steer the ship well. You were born to master it, just keep it in mind. With knowledge and information you can move on the crust only. It’s just living accidentally. Wisdom helps you dig deep. There is a source of your real happiness. It doesn’t require a sprint on the outer crust. You will just head-but other runners, fall in the dust and grit your bloody teeth. After all, it’s just a stampede. Break through the outer shell. It needs some guts to begin with, but then at later stages it is like you are cutting butter with a knife. You will have the passage to your real self. It will be an escape route from the mindless race. Just dive into it. Below lies the tranquil sea, your own unchartered waters. You are the owner of this infinite depths and cool currents spreading in countless directions. You can drift anywhere. Just imagine the freedom. Claim your freedom. You were not born to be slave. Go, do it!

Shaping the wooden crate of my destiny

He was busy hammering the wood. Tonk, tonk, phutt, phutt, buuum, buuum. Lot of noise. I was crying foul. He Himself winced with unbearable pain as I cried foul and blamed Him for being so merciless and unkind. God but was doing His duty. He has to have smile and the tears in each of His hands, for they lose their meaning in the absence of each other. It’s all blame game on Him and little appreciation. God was putting down nails into my wooden being to shape the box of my destiny. I am an undefined dead wood with His woodwork. Making is painful and laborious. It’s not a cakewalk. So I kept on crying with pain and cursed Him for his mercilessness. Making is a highly painful buddy. It draws blood and fetches tears and remorse even in His heart for being so accepting to the painful side of existence. He but cannot remove pain from universe because then pleasure will lose its meaning.  He cannot chuck out darkness, for light will become meaningless. But believe me every nail writes the script of many-many pleasant moments in future. Love your struggle. Accept your pains. Be a bit kind to yourself when you fail. Only a fall carries the full measure of a rise. See through your tears at the impending victory waiting at a distance. Love your labour on the hot sands of your destiny because these are the milestones which will define and make your victory meaningful and worth it.

Killing with one hand, saving with the other

How precious is a new-born life! It’s more precious than anything else on the earth. You cannot find anything to weigh equal in the opposite pan. Nothing matters more than the survival of a new-born. It becomes the primary cause. You become its sky and earth, sheltering this water bubble to keep its shiny film of time-dome reflecting in your eyes. There it merges with your dreams and your dreams rush out into the broad daylight to shake hands with your destiny. You cup your hands over it to save its feeble light from going off even by the slightest whiff of air. Look at the way the little signs of life in a just born, so fragile, weak and soft, are picked up and held to heart with so much love, care and affection! You hold the tiny seed, so small that it can be blown away by a little whish of air from the mouth, and see it growing into a big banyan. It becomes larger and more important than you, nourished by the dewy showers of your heart, honey-sweet sips of your emotions and defended by the ramparts of your protectiveness. A new-born clings to survival like it is held to life just by an invisible string of a cobweb, which may snap at the slightest carelessness. So we dreamily hold dear life like dreams spread on our eyelashes. It’s our own image we hold, our chance to survive in the future, a continuation of our journey, a furtherance of our hopes, aspirations, passions and the culmination of all our struggles. It’s a reward for all our perspiring work. It’s the medicine for all the ailments which plague us. A child, a new life, is a symbol of our belief in the freshness and meaningfulness of the journey, the great art of doing, of making, the story of continuing the march. That’s how we nurture a new life. If not for this instinct, no child will ever survive. After all, it’s such a tiny lamp and the storms are so strong. Why is it that once that very life grows up, we grow so apathetic to it that its decimation and destruction hardly counts as anything more than a routine news item? Why killing becomes more expected and natural than saving lives? Why are there more people ready to kill, than eager to save lives? It’s the futile game of doing and undoing. Just making and then breaking. It’s the mad, crazy force that has kept us to the level of mere struggling pack of humans who are as miserable like they were thousands of years ago. It is the bondage that holds us back, stopping us from becoming superhuman, which was otherwise our destination given the beginning we had in the loveable most and caring hands. But we first do and then undo. The nasty cycle of creating and destroying. A part of us is making, and the majority is involved in destroying. And we remain where we started from. We nurture new life like the dearest jewel to the self, and then we get busy in the mad frenzy to kill and destroy those very dear lives. It’s self annihilation. It’s like raising crops with all the care and then cut, reap and harvest.   

Laugh at the load on your head

When life screws you up from many angles, and despite best of your efforts, and all the humanly possible tries, you find the situation unchanging, you can still fight for a change! The ray of light is never lost. It lurks somewhere. All you need is to look earnestly. And there is a very easy solution. All it requires is a change in yourself, the carrier of all this unjustified shitty load! You can make yourself physically stronger. In plain and simple terms, physically stronger. If the load carrier becomes stronger, the load becomes lighter. It is like a person suffering under 100 kg weight. And come whatever may, he cannot unburden himself of this load. What is the option left? It is just to get physically stronger so that it is possible to carry this load. I’m talking of plain physical strength! Forget about all other hypothetical versions of strength like mental strength and all, these are just derivatives of the basic skeleton of our body. Physical strength is the prelude to all other concepts of strength. So all you guys and girls, who are undeservedly carrying extra load in life, and cannot put it off your head, just sweat it out. Grow strong physically for your load! Then you can even laugh at the weight on your head!

Why do I want to read The Satanic Verses and Reminiscences from the Nehru Era?

The day when I would feel completely free, being totally satisfied with the Indian democracy, will be when I will enter a bookstore, go to the display to pick up The Satanic Verses and Reminiscences from the Nehru Era, walk out proudly and safely, openly flaunting my right to knowledge and information, reach my study and immerse myself in these books, share the experience with others later, and still be safe over a cup of coffee at a public place. This, to me, is the hallmark of a vibrant democracy and an open society. It’s not that I’m a scandal-monger or somebody interested in pickled sweet-sour version of things and people. I’m just curious like children are about a world far bigger than their understanding and imagination. I just want an opportunity to peel off the mask and look at the dermis to know a bit more interesting, meaningful things below the epidermis. The things that are routine and popular and are sort of conventional come along a well-contrived effort by individuals, teams and organizations in building up that particular image. It’s about personas, organizations and religions. I want The Satanic Verses to be available at all bookstores in India. Not that I am speaking as a Hindu rightist or somebody suffering from Islamophobia. I respect Islam as much as I do my own religion, or for that matter any religion on the planet. But beyond divinity and messenger of God, I want to know the role of humans in shaping a particular belief system. The Satanic Verses takes you to the life and times when Islam originated. The very same applies to Reminiscences from the Nehru Era. I’m not interested in the colorful lives of the King and Queen of free India. But by having a craving for the real behind the scene lives of Nehru and Indira, I want to see how much of ourselves, we the common Indians, gets reflected on the ones who led us for so many years. During these days of free speech and information, I am just eager to use my right to information and mischievously peek behind the curtains to see how the mighty people drop their guards to be humans like us. Those escapades and naughty surrenders to the basic instinct certainly leave me water-mouthed.

Fire-pitted souls

This one is for those who daily put their physical selves in the furnace to earn survival morsels--the laborers, peasants, daily wage earners, artisans, roadside vendors, etc. Their whole body sheds sweaty tears day in and day out. So the salty sea of miseries pours out through the thick walls of their rough skin. It rarely finds an outlet through eyes! Why? Because these are glassy hard balls--the fiery pits where dreams, tears, hopes and humanity get burnt incessantly! Hunger always staring in the face. Most of the common realities just wildest dreams. Every walk a struggle to survive. Every smile just a shadow of pain. A wish to earn an extra penny in whatever you do, think, say or plan. There is no respite. Hunger becomes your shadow, always with you, your companion. After a time you become used to it, get addicted to it. The starving shadow becomes the self. You love it more than even the self. The personality becomes a hard-knotted dead wood. A dark hole which sucks its own light. A vacuum which sucks in air. A life that eats itself to appear more like death. An emptiness that chucks away any space needed for a normal self. Yaa, poverty makes one almost sub-human, a different species. Is one life-time sufficient to escape its clutches? You become a brute like the bull snorting, pulling the cart, staring on the road, tearing the hooves, taking one step after the other. You cannot look up and see this wide, spacious world. Your vision is limited to the grains in the sands around your feet which you have to pick up and eat to survive another day. There was no past, just like there is no present, and exactly like there will be no future. Well, where to go and what to do!?

The coy, dove-eyed slaughterer

Do you think violence is basically about breaking heads, firing bullets, stabbing knives, blood, wounds, injuries, sticks and guns etc., etc.? Please give me some company for some revision if you think so. To me the most dangerous form of violence is within, in the mind in the form of ideas, emotions and thoughts. What we see in the form of broken heads and mangled bodies is just an outcome, a portion, of the volcano of the violence within, in ideas, thoughts, emotions and reflections. Do you think, given man’s penchant for expression of violence in physical form, man is more violent than woman? Please stay with me for some more moments if you believe so. Like they are suitable competitor to man in every field presently, women are no less in violence, if not exactly in the bloodied form, but certainly in the intensity of the violence within, the scheming volcano that smolders over the years. And it bursts suddenly. Quite unfortunately, the victims are fellow women only. It’s more so in conservative, traditional societies. In the ghettoized social space, where women are left suffocating for freedom, violence brews up a very nasty cocktail. It’s like hen fighting within the shitty cage. They cannot come out, so they fight. The historic sense of revenge accumulates and pours out to seek a target. As is the natural law, it seeks a soft target, and who is a softer target than a not-self-dependent woman in a conservative ghetto. And often it’s dirtier than a bloody bight. Nothing can match the violence of a female for her fellow species in traditional societies. It’s about the revenge, the plot, the scheming, a cycle of self-annihilation. In most of the crimes related to death, dowry and divorce in arranged marriages, the plot is hatched and aided by females. Generally, the victim of a violent female mind is another woman. The remedy lies in setting them free, a free run out of the cage of tradition and convention. The woman on the open platform of life are less violent in life. Or at least this is what I think. Thanks for being there.

Croakings of an old toad

We deserve our airy moments—little-little somersaults, froggy jumps over life's grounded roadblocks, tiny ballooned flights above the frictioned, rubbing realities on the surface. But we must not forget, we are terrestrial beings not the airy angels. So guys ensure that you land rightly on your feet after airy jaunts and not crash-land on your arse.

******

Staring at the misty past

and forcing myself not to see the future eager to unfold itself too fast,

I wave at the nostalgic strains still beckoning and faintly alive,

How I wish I could dive

back into the pools of the past,

To have my moments last

at a place that held me in its cradle soft,

That pious embrace which still holds me aloft!!

******

There is a tree in poor health. Its leaves dispirited, tabby and not fresh green. Its canopy hardly able to put shadow on the ground. It just waits for some storm to claim a natural calamity. You see somebody nurturing its leaves, pouring water and manure on them and dreamily look forward to greenish luxuriance. Of course it’s a folly. The problem lies in roots, not on the leaves. That’s how it’s with human lives. We look for the solutions on the surface, at the levels where the problems manifest themselves. Little do we realize that the root cause of such problem lies somewhere else. Those who get lynched by the diseased emotions of jealousy, hate, anger, frustration, insecurity and animosity have a problem deep within the self. These negative emotions are just like surface wavelets. If the interior is rooted in calmness, poise and control, such diseased leaves won’t sprout on the surface to take a toll on the physio-psychological health. In the depths of the sea, there is a calm world basking in the glory of bluish darkness that stays unmoved. On the surface there are storms and upheavals. The surface tosses and turns as if struck by some mad force. Disturbance is destined to die. But before it dies, it takes casualties like a pyre burns on firewood. Only peace and calmness can be permanent. And surprisingly calmness does not draw on any fuel to sustain its eternity. It’s self sustaining. There are no collateral damages. So isn’t it prudent to dive deep into the womb of serenity to be reborn as a serene child who is in control of his destiny? Submerge into the cool depths of your real, inner self. Explore your undisturbed waters. Its bluish darkness will light a lamp of self-realization. You will clearly see the funny part of surface storms and even laugh at yourself for having been so crazy in the shallow, muddied waters. Don’t waste this precious life in the muddied storms. The pearls of your destiny lie at depths. So brothers and sisters, raise your head above stormy waters, take in a huge breath, dive deep and shake hands with undisturbed waters where your real self awaits with the answers to all the root causes of the problems on the surface.

A day in the life of a peacock

Pre-monsoons have been kinder this year. Just at the beginning of the rainy season, the air is humid and clouds display teasing games of surprise and showers in the sky. For the last one week there is lull period though. It’s unbearably hot and humid. Mother is busy finishing the first-half chores for the day. The peacock lands in the courtyard with its riot of colours. It arrives with a small storm that airs the desultory weather. Unfortunately there are no chapattis left from last night supper. This particular peacock likes chapattis more than the grains. She knows it from her experience. It hardly put its beak into the grainy offerings in the past. Chapattis, on the other hand, it relishes almost like humans. She feels sorry for it. “There are no chapattis son!” But the feathered son follows her in the courtyard. She even tries to shoo it away so that it can reach some other door-step and beat its hunger at the earliest. It’s terribly hot and humid. The multi-coloured guest is panting. It cranes out its royal blue neck to search for the chapatti pieces. They aren’t to be found. It then follows mother to the innermost recesses of the house. It seems to have run out of its options in the wilderness. Pesticides in the surrounding farms. Hardly any option for the poor national bird. Hunger is a terrible pusher. It changes one from what one generally is. The fear of hunger is worse than most of the other fears. So the big bird, having run out of natural options, follows her. With panting beak, beating its natural instincts to be scared of the humans, it kow-tows her to grab the moment of her generosity. Her heart melts. “No chapattis today! And you don’t eat grains, but still try these today.” She puts a bowl of multiple grains including wheat and pulses. When you are really hungry, the choice and type of the food don’t matter. With quick beakfuls, even not caring to crane out its neck to ensure safety, the poor thing gulps down the grains. Mother looks sadly at it. “Poor thing isn’t cribbing about food.” It just wants to beat the hunger. Having eaten to its full, it takes some pecks in the water bowl left on the courtyard wall and swoops away with swooshing the air and glitter of its colours under the sun. It has ensured a day’s survival in a world where its next generation has almost no place. 

Farts of a village frog

There is an independent will pervading the universe, expanding with the cosmic expansion it elopes with the infinity. Its particles sneak into our subconscious mind, leading us in directions where we won't go consciously. No wonder our minds are such restless, unreined, unchecked horses. Thoughts just float around. It’s a chaos. Disorderly mess. The mind is the sea in constant upheaval. There are storms of thoughts, ideas and emotions. The challenge lies in taming the self, in building strong ramparts against the meteoritic onslaught of the rampaging soldiers of the universal free-will. The citadel of the self has to be strong to withstand the barrage. Once the meteoritic showers stop their random crash-landings in our brain, it will turn a cool, tranquil, peaceful and calm pond where one can see the real self reflected in crystal clear waters.

******

One minute of hate and anger comes at the cost of one hour deducted from life. Hate is the choice of the worst; love is the smilingly picked up gift of the best. The journey from the worst to the best doesn’t cross seven seas. It’s just an arms-length endeavour. You just let go hate from one hand and hold love delicately in the other. It just requires this much for the biggest transformation, from the worst to the best. Choose to be the best.

******

In the farthest fathoms of my being, a steady lamp is aglow with its soft mystical rays. I but kept on looking heavenwards for light and guidance, ignorant of the tiny torch carrying the cosmic flame within. Blinded by the worldly blaze outside, I fell headlong. Even the tiny inside lamp toppled and put heart on fire. Don’t worry guys, it gives just acidity. A bit of heartburn. Maya mili na ram--the end result!  

******

Two honeybees drowning in the water bucket. I take them out and they fly. Not just saving two lives, I create the possibility of an extra honey drop for this bitter world. Goodness is complete in itself. It doesn't need the outcome to qualify it. Do your good deed. It might be almost invisible, but it carries a positive outcome in some corner of the universe.  

******

Strong lies are better than weak truths. It’s nothing but about the support and confidence in your truth which can be different from someone else’s truth. Your truth is truth as long as it survives on the life-force of your trust in it. Strong lies are nothing but the tombstones and graves built on the dead truths buried safely for convenience.

******

After socialism you have to build capitalism. Ever saw anything more contradictory? Look at all the socialist societies. After the class wars and purgings, and decades of torture and robbing people of their free-will and independent choices, they plant the seeds of capitalism again. Why? Because there is simply no other way. Efforts at socialism are all like burning down the previous harvest, weeding out endlessly, tilling, breaking clods, preparing the seed-bed, only to plant the previous seeds again. Damn funny and tragic. If all this ends at the same point then why all this blood-bathing?

******

At least be a living room dissident. It saves the soul against the evil. This is just some practical advice to those struggling again undemocratic governments. For example democracy supporters in Hong King. It keeps the flame alive for more appropriate times.

******

Imagine a philosophy student working in a boiler-plant, or a pianist working on radio circuits. Such wonders are possible only in a communist society. It’s only about killing the freedom of mind and choking the spirits to mass produce zombies who don’t understand much about what human life is all about. Left-leaning Indian intelligentsia ought to be put to some manual labour to get the rust off their ideology-clogged brains.

******

"A communist is someone who's read Marx, an anti-communist is someone who's understood him."
Svetlana Alexievich

******

When it rains in Haryana, the most chilled out people are the electricity board for they cool their heels and bless us with 24 hour power cuts, always everywhere in the villages at least. Possibly the belief is that once blessed with rains the farmers don't need anything else in life. Anyway it doesn't pinch too much because even on the finest day we have at least 14-16 hours of power cut. Our CMs have changed but they are all comfortable with the power cuts at least. A very suitable agreement on certain policies, I see. It was the same under Chautala, Hooda and remains the same under Khattar. Possibly some things are better left unchanged.

******

Second-Hand Time by Svetlana Alexievich. The book is elegantly fat, white, hardbound and seductive. Lose yourself to its charms. It will open up the communist-time horrors of stifled emotions, imprisonment of the individual soul and loss of the natural ability to even make sense of what freedom is. Hope the caricatured Indian version of communism does some soul-searching after such revelations.

******

That which is best, the universe conspires to preserve it. Same is the case with Taoism. Uprooted from China, it will survive in India. Buddhism was India's best export. Taoism can be our best import.

The Elixir of Life

A look of hate snatches and steals a part of life; a look of love adds something good to life. A hateful thought kills; a thought of love saves life. Hate is the evil collaborator of death; love is the bright-smiled custodian of life. Nurture the good and the best in you. Like most of the things it can be practiced and learnt. Practice smile. It’s a small pill of wellness. Learn to look at things with love. Start with your food, water, whatever you drink, or whatever you eat. Before you eat or drink, take a minute’s pause and look at the thing, the instrument of life, the helper of your survivability, the soldier of your life, resting before you on the table. It’s there for you, to help you get strong and survive and live another day. At that moment there is no better friend to you in the universe. Accept its friendship and brotherliness. Embrace its camaraderie. As you chew, swallow and gulp it down, it will become a part of you. It’s something that will be you once you have it in your guts. The moments before being eaten, it becomes a sacred part of your extended self. Accept it. Look with love. Take it as a blessing from your guardian angel to help you beat the negative forces hankering after your demise. The food taken with such love and affection becomes the elixir of life.

Dumplings on a rainy day

There is no absolute truth. All we have is just a pliant, relatively swaying sea of fractional truths. We draw out our suitable share of tit-bits of truths from this sea to complement our sense of identity with the self, i.e., ego, self-consciousness, our perception of the things, our vision of the world and the people around.   

  

Women are humanist!! Almost perfect except one thing! Their humaneness crosses the zone of perfection and slightly touches an arena where bitchiness for their own sex starts in free flow. It is here the man's chance to appease his women opens up its welcoming arms. A man has to realise that it is more practical to say a few negatively critical remark about other women than millions of appreciating words about his woman!!

Happiness is when everything is soaked in rain in the morning and the diligent boy hands you a copy of dry newspaper. You feel like proclaiming him a champion and yourself a lottery winner. You just grab your slightly damp copy--newsprint is so soft that it soaks some moisture from the air itself, so the delivery boy cannot help in this--like a prized possession. Life is not about mountains of mighty triumphs. It's about tiny molehills of such small pleasures. Learn to be happy with scores of little, little strokes of luck that come your way on a daily basis. Simple mathematics is: At the end of the day, the sum total of our little fractions of luck is more than the big shitty stroke of bad luck. Appreciate your tiny sinews of luck for they tie the rope of your survival and sustenance. If not for them things can go wrong in as many ways as the vastness of this universe.
                                   ******************************************************

In the burning whirlpools of the desert storm, some tears shed by a suffering heart vaporize and go high in the sky for rainy prospects. Don’t get senty guys, it’s just an airy oasis.
                                            ******************************************

Don't take victory for granted. She is a very choosy bride. She has her own, sometimes illogical, criteria to pick up the groom.
                                                   ********************************

A nuclear bomb undoes all other types of technical superiority in conventional warfare. Similarly, leaps in space technology will see a country undoing various technical superiorities in the hands of rival countries on land.
                                                     ***************************

To escape boredom, a man has to just extend his normal schedule; the same extension, which overlaps a woman's effort to tide over her boredom, turns her into a sinner.
                                                        **********************

The best compliment for my book Faceless Gods was by my friend's six-year-old daughter. 

Struggling to hold the fat book in her small hands, and lost in the dense text, she gave the expert review, "Uncle has got a very nice handwriting."
                                                           *****************

Truth need not be salted. Even in its bland form, it's more vocal than any well-peppered, politically correct, hypothetically safe and socially convenient cuisine.
                                                              ************

Bigot, watch out, there is poison in your plate!

My dear terrorist, I have a very simple question for you. Why does killing come so easy to you? Each and every breath of a newborn is literally purchased by its parents and wards in lieu of love, affection and care which go beyond any monetary value. Why then you simply get ready to sniff out lives, the very same lives which have been taken care of tirelessly and unselfishly by parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, relatives and friends.

Killings in the name of religion is what defines we earthlings as of now. Quite surprisingly, the fundamental tenets of every religion aim to make the followers better human beings, better not just for the self, but for others as well. Religious texts seem imploring a person to become an instrument of betterment, a heaver of humanity forward on its march to better days. The core of all religions is meant to be love and compassion. Why then so much of hate and blood-bathing in the name of religion?

The walk between good and evil is very dodgy and testing. Like a rope-walker is inclined to fall, with each step it’s about evading the fall. There is a natural pull for the fall. Only with each careful step and awareness one can move on. Goodness requires practice. It doesn’t come naturally. Meanness has its own instinctive, convenient outlet through the little channels of ego pervading through our self-consciousness. Hate has its own natural pull. It just shoots off, gathering its own force once let loose, like a boulder rolling downhill. In hate you can do anything; it’s a terrific ignition. In anger you can rant endlessly.

In contrast, in love and peace you have few options. Love is going uphill. You have to hold it in your heart. You have to carry its weight. You pant and perspire. Man, it needs effort, simply because it doesn’t come naturally. Thousands of years of struggle to survive has genetically ingrained fear, insecurity and hate in the core of our being. Slightest trigger and the arrow is shot. Mention love and how many words you can speak out. Call of good deeds to be done around, you will twiddle your hair to find anything good to do around. Now mention hate, anger and destruction. And you have the options scattered around you to carry out ranging from verbally abusing somebody, slapping, screaming, breaking heads, throwing bricks to even killings.

Religion in practice is like the bamboo in the hands of a rope-walker. It is meant to stop the fall. It is supposed to prevent your fall with each step. It does so by making you aware of being good. So you take another step, then another and then another to complete the journey.

The religion in the hands of bigots doesn’t remain religion at all. It’s a poisoned pill. Condemn it in direct terms without fiddling with diplomatic maneuvering and falling in the clutches of impotent concept like secularism. Bigots are just simple mismanagers of religion. Throw them out of their authoritative seat. Hold them by their neck, kick them on their ass and spit on their version of religion that ordains killing innocent people. Not only they force a fall from the rope of life, they kill the soul. They kill the soul by sidelining love and replace it with hate. It imprisons the soul. It is skin deep addiction for some abnormal gratification of the sense. It pampers the evil side of the personality. There is always a choice to be either good or bad. It robs one of this natural choice. Only dark force with its ghosts of hate, jealousy, anger, insecurity and frustration remain in the fray. It grips you and makes you an instrument of the evil, a foot-soldier of chaos. You don’t see the light from within. You are a blinded, crazy robot, ready to strike. And when you strike you just kill, without bothering about who you are killing. They are mostly innocents.

When a child, who understands religion no more than the alphabets in her books, is killed in the unsparing spool of violence, what lines in the book of bigotry can justify the deed? When innocent people out for shopping, going to office and out there on the small stage of life get killed, which God in which heaven is appeased? If He is appeased, then to the hell with such a God!

Bound feet, mutilated genitalia and clipped wings

Women had to fight a long battle to reach the level of swimsuit and the leisure of swimming. Buried under multiple layers of yards of skirts, great-skirts, bonnets and gloves any attempt to lighten the burden was taken as a sign of doubtful morality. During the Victorian era, the swimwear was more cumbersome than what the modern woman wears in sub-zero temperatures. It was not until some decades back that female swimwear became something of a legitimate leisure activity. Mind you, the man had been doing the same since the conceiving of the so called civilization.

The most powerful country in the world, the United States of America, granted voting rights to the contributors of its development only in 1920. The first semblance of democracy dates back to ancient Greece. In England the roots date a good thousand years back. So the voting right came at least 1000 years late.

Men were flying planes for a good 30 years when the first females cracked the hard shell of cockpit glass and broke though rocky minds to set wings to the flight of their dreams.

Education and intellect, the timeless right of the men, let loose its first showers of knowledge and empowerment on women just during the last fifty years. The history of knowledge and its pursuit date back 3500 years. Even now it’s just in infancy in many parts of the world.

Female genital mutilation, removal of some or all of external genitalia, to tame the so called presumed rampant sexual desires in women. The sexual freedom that man enjoyed, taking it a moral act for him and immoral for her. It was his rightful pleasure and her sin. Now  the chains are breaking. A long battle to go for though, because sex for man is natural. For the woman it is still a scandal.   

In China, for one thousand years they bound women’s feet since early infancy with dozens of feet long strips of clothes to check feet growth. It was for the famed four inch feet, the symbol of docility, tameness and civility, of being gloriously feminine. They bent the toes inwards and tied layers of clothes to crush and break the bones slowly and painfully over the years to keep the feet from growing beyond four inches, the limit after which a woman became almost unacceptable and uncivilized and shameful. Women hopped like unassertive, vulnerable creatures. It was the walk of a willow switch swaying to spring breeze to arouse the men. They wore silken embroidered baby shoes over bound feet. Inside flesh rottened and sores festered. The famed Chinese beauty with bound feet of a baby did service to the patriarchy for 1000 years before the practice stopped in 1920s.

In my state of Haryana, we have 7000 village settlements. In my memory of the last 20 years, there have been 5 honor killings in my village. The girls’ crime was just as simple as pursuing--once in a lifetime--a freedom which any men or boy does every day throughout their lives. They fell in love. Nothing wrong with that. Everybody does. The only difference was that they allowed it to blossom. Survival and chastity meant subduing it the moment it sparked. Otherwise it was an unpardonable sin. The punishment death ordained by society and ignored and looked over by the state. Their sin? They went out with a boy, talked to him, went to some eating point with him, and thus brought this shame to the family. The society would expect hit-back from the disgraced family to salvage honor. And of course they did. A quiet strangulation, a still quieter cremation, and a quietest society. Gone. She earned it, everybody seemed to agree. Taking 5 honor killings per settlement during the last 20 years, the traditional society of Haryana has progressed with the killings of at least 35000 honor killings. Now when I see the freedom enjoyed by boys and girls, enjoying innocent pleasures like talking to each other, going for coffee and burgers and movies, I realize it has been a silent revolution. There are unnamed, unseen martyrs. I count them to be 35000 in my state during the last two decades.

The bloody wheels of exploitation are taking women further to the next milestone in their journey.          

As the human juggernaut moves from brawn to brain, there is an inevitable shift in gender roles. The traditional muscle-dominated bastion of males is melting. It’s more about smartness and management now wherein females are better placed to excel given centuries of biological traits sharpened in managing things despite greatest odds.  

All things go in circles. In the beastly fight to survive in the jungles, we started with an all male dominated scenario. Now we are moving towards parity and equality in gender functions in making a society and driving the economy and pulling the technology. On further progression on the path in the circle, the role of women will overtake that of men. And rightly so. They have earned it. It has been a bloody battle for thousands of years.

Harmless hornets, biteless bees and beggar peacock

Large yellow paper wasps, one of the stinging hornets, defended their nests with a single-minded determination. Stinging winged chivalry! Attack! Their primal instinct! Well that was almost three decades back when we ran helter-skelter as the winged yellow striker, twitched its antenna, its dull black points of eyes stared before striking. Children cried with pain. Next day a joker with a swollen face would provide free entertainment.

So much so for the wild instinct! There were still remaining some traces of wilderness in the countryside. Wild is what? It’s just to be natural. But then having turned the wilderness upside down, trading it with the civilized onslaught, we humans are restlessly marching ahead. There is a stampede and many species are getting trampled in the dust below. The wilderness gone. Most of the species have lost their footing as the terribly over-bloated and glutinous super-species, man and womankind, firmly hold the reins of the chariot of nature. Everything has changed. The wilderness vanishing, so is the mundane ‘wild’ streak in birds, animals and insects. It’s a tamed world in tamed humanized environs.

Coming back to the yellow foe of our childhood. They held their positions, defended their share in nature, struck lips, cheek, nose and forehead to defend their fortifications. The punished swollen face of the linage of Homo sapiens bearing a testimony to the fact that he is not the only claimant to the cakes of Mother Nature. Things have come upside down since then. As the human juggernaut moves on, mowing down the last traces of wilderness, species are losing their primal instincts, just to buy some more time before the inevitable extinction. It’s an acceptance, a sort of death-bed time’s letting go of any signs of further struggle. A final surrender, a soulful resignation.

The yellow hornet doesn’t bite now. Somehow stealing out some niche in the not so impressive corner of the house, where they are not a blot on the household decorum, surviving there like some beggar on the pavement, they simply don’t bite. The sentinels don’t rush at your nose even when you raise a cobweb cleaner in the nest’s direction. The instinct of survival seems to have taught them a lesson that they cannot afford to mess with the bi-pedaled torch-bearer of the onslaught on nature.

I commit the error of still linking honeybees to the notorious chivalry of those comb-defenders we witnessed during childhood. They don’t bite anymore. Forget about flowers, they have to run greedily for the semi-arid shoots of acacia. It’s scorching heat and honeybees buzz around the water bucket. It’s man’s offering. It’s no wild stream bordered with wild flowers where they can lay claim their share of nature and defend their fort. The bucket is man’s creation. So they don’t bite. They sense that it’s man’s beneficence and kindness that they are still surviving. I put my hand among a swarmful of honeybees stuck up around the corners of the bucket. Nostalgia strikes. I still remember those bites and swollen limbs. Well that is history. They just fly away. In a struggle to grab the last survival sips in a world that has no place for them anymore, they have forgotten to strike. The confidence is gone. They don’t have any rights anymore. That’s what happens when you just survive and not live. Only woman and mankind are living, others are just surviving. They will definitely become extinct. Then it will the human’s time to struggle, survive and get extinct. (Before that of course humans will desperately try to artificially replace whatever nature, in combination with countless other species, has bestowed them with. The stage is getting set for the evolution of a new species—some unthinkable woman-machine combination.)

The peacock, a riot of colours, is in double mind. With its cute eyes it stares at me. The wilderness in it is admonishing of a danger. It takes a step back. But where can it to fly back to. It’s a migrant in the village. The countryside is saturated with insectsides and pest control chemicals. So there is nothing for it to feed upon there. I understand its helplessness. So take some more steps forward with chapatti pieces in my hand. I know it’s hungry. It won’t fly away. The peacock has accepted its fate and so have all others. Except humans, of course.

The Old Moon and the Imperiled Landscape

It was very cold and the time was frozen around half an hour before the morning twilight on January 13, the day celebrated as Lohri; a day before Makar Sakranti on the full moon next day. The pallid rays of a pale moon had grown old so soon during the last hour before the morning twilight. The night had been chilly, clear-skied, frosty and fogless: an exceptional January night, not in chill, but in being clear certainly. The moon, just a day away from its fullness, had been exceptionally bright.

Nightlong, almost near the peak of its rounded beauty, it had fulfilled its luminous duty. Its milky beams over-rode the pointed shafts of light from the distant stars. After all it was his world; the stars had their own at mammoth astronomical distances. The moon was thus the brightest, bulbous star, eager to brush out every strain and tainting, shadowy tar. Its beams spread like snows over the sleeping horizons into the sleepy distances and languorous miles.

The beautiful countryside was lying in sleepy abundance under the chilly, milky blanket with slumberous pride. Everything was open to the celestial torch with nothing to hide. Cold-basking fields were huddled under their croppy sheets. Above was gloating the marvelous moonshine. Wheatlings stood bow-headed in reverence with dewy crowns fine. The marigold flowers were frozen in kissed silence by the milky showers. The flowers happy to surrender their colours to the lover’s mysterious smiles and disrobing powers. White pea flowers boasted their augmented whiteness. Aha, such dolefully beneficent had been the moony brightness. Even the trees did not appear merely dark specters lurking shadowishly over the horizon. They appeared boats of foliage floating in a misty sea.   

In the background of such a brightly lit stage even the sky seemed earth-lorn. Through the milky transparency, its bluish-dusky veil lurked and through it only the brightest stars smiled and showed that there was a world beyond as well. Scattered in the docile swathes of this moon-baked countryside, the villages seemed as mammoth ships silently floating in the white wavy sea of light.

At this moment the moon was well past its prime, as if in shining too bright, to use the full charms of a fog-free night, it had committed a harmless crime. Its setting quarters lay in the north-west, from where it was eager to move for some rest. Its strength and vigour had drastically plummeted down. Paleness eating into the guts of its plump milky brightness. An old, setting moon, away from the youth’s boon. Dislodged of its shiny crown, it ogled with a meek, even irritated, anguished, helpless frown. Its sheen was rapidly fading out. Its yellowish pale rays almost eager for a wailing shout. Glumly it was fading over that reddish-brown sandy undulation carrying fields, furrows and crops on its gently unfolding dome. The shiny fruits born of sweat-drenched hours by the farmers in its sandy loam. Accusingly the moon threw pale, protesting shadows in the south-east. There urbanism, consumerism and crass commercialism blatantly, proudly held its seat commanding metropolitan, capitalist feast.

The area had been earmarked for some development project. It now being defined by a tiny space bound in a map issued under the state government’s gazette notification. A mischief by the developmental hand. Ever eager to bulldoze over the nature and turn it into uncomplaining, lifeless sand where lustrous stones will be built over the nature’s burial. Heartless, wanton and depraved! But the nature has no oratory to baulk the words. It but repays in kind.

This pale, mournful moon was preparing to set soon into the misty gloom of the twilight. A new bright sun of consumerism and commerce will be ascending to its dawning height. And the soft natural delicacies will scamper with fright.

Those reed stalks which swayed to the cold shove of a gentle breeze without any greed appeared to say good-bye to the moon. The latter plummeted down further with a bloated face and a sigh. Its pallid face grimacing with a painful nostalgia. Its fading, setting rays tainted with a peculiar dullness, the death, the demise, the oblivion. Its oblong teary face looking down at the landscape. Sleepy fields, beneficent swathes of wastes and fallow lands.

Mighty lessons were taught here by nature to itself and all. The farmer going to the fields with his gear. Those long, painful and oftentimes fruitless days subsided when the sun’s eager rays looking at the sweaty trove and the shirt’s hoe. Where the long, brooding nights arrived like the deeds accomplished. Where the failures galore but the hard work was never a bore. The failures defined the success as the losses stood just as a testimony to the profits. Where the hopes, aspirations and desires varied with the changing hues of the weather. The farmers pawning everything for the feathers in destiny’s crown. Gold forming immaterially—or minimally at the rate of a dust speck for tons of sweat—in the toiled soil reddish brown.

All this will be gone. The moon was also dying with a moan. This charming mystery of the landscape: why hardest labour fetches minimal returns; why a bit less harder toil results in a soul-satisfying speckful of return that seems the wealthiest load. All these beautiful, aesthetic, curvy, circuiting strings, the mysteries of the landscape, of destiny, of the see-saw battle between happiness and suffering, between pleasure and pain, between penury and sustainable as well as gluttonous gain, between life and death, between a smile and a tear, all will be lost.

Everything will be gone for a direct, straight, materially penetrating needle of surety: the commercial, unflinching and fixed use of the landscape in a concrete form where profits will boomerang in proportion to the short-cuts; where compromised humanity, ideology and conscience will not face any ifs and buts; where there won’t be any sweet scent of labour which will be replaced by mechanical, greasy, muddy panting of merciless competition and mad grab; where concrete blocks and apartments will replace these wondrous solitudes and petalous platitudes basking in unrestrained, free, natural air; where sheaves, stalks, straw and reeds will not sway to the breeze, but blank, rigid, ironed towers will stand mutely, inflexibly to the nature’s cooing calls from increasing distances.

Now the sorrowfully yellowing death rattle of the setting time was arriving with a finishing chime. There on the opposite horizon, the day opened a window to sneak a peek at the imperiled room of the night. Wispily, there was the twilight with its mixed day-night delight. In its mysterious lap, the old moon met a slightly premature death, slumped as it feebly, freely into the silvery sea of the mist hung over the tree-line. Slithered it into the sea of death and plunged into invisibility.

The twilight mischievously winked with its unfaithful, teasing look, asking favours both from the night and the day. The old moon was gone with its last ray. And the soon-to-be-doomed panorama, unmindful of the fatality in wait, came out of its dewy slumber. A crane’s clarion call cree…ked over its yawning bosom. The sun prepared to cast its first ray. The fields got up for another hard farming day.